Bowl of Petunias
The play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead went into the lives of two minor Hamlet characters, although I haven't read the book, I have gazen at the back, wondering if I, in 12th grade, will ever have to read something that is as boring looking as that.
But, here I am, imitating a book I haven't read, going into the life of the bowl of petunias, in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the galaxy. This bowl of petunias appeared because of improbability and was shortly after crushed on the surface of Magrathea. You might wonder, now what is the purpose of writing a story of something that lived for 5 seconds. I am also wondering.
Oh no, not again. There he is, that man, Arthur Dent, how many times has he killed me, this time I didn't want to exist, but here I am, a bowl of petunias, preparing to die. Besides me is the whale, my spirit brother, called into this existance because of him, Arthur Dent, the evil one.
I wonder, what kind of petunias am I? What color? I'm falling, down, down, down, down, down. The pink sky, do I blend in? How do I know I am petunias? Am I spelling that right?
I suppose, althought I doubt a bowl of petunias has a brain, that will not live to give birth to another bowl of petunias, how this could occur is a mystery. I sure use I in a lot of sentences, don't I? How can you not be self-center, is there another way to be?
The ground is getting closer now, soon the pot will break. If I had wings, I'd fly away, but what the hell are those? O well, good bye cruel universe, we'll always have Paris.
Thud.
The play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead went into the lives of two minor Hamlet characters, although I haven't read the book, I have gazen at the back, wondering if I, in 12th grade, will ever have to read something that is as boring looking as that.
But, here I am, imitating a book I haven't read, going into the life of the bowl of petunias, in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the galaxy. This bowl of petunias appeared because of improbability and was shortly after crushed on the surface of Magrathea. You might wonder, now what is the purpose of writing a story of something that lived for 5 seconds. I am also wondering.
Oh no, not again. There he is, that man, Arthur Dent, how many times has he killed me, this time I didn't want to exist, but here I am, a bowl of petunias, preparing to die. Besides me is the whale, my spirit brother, called into this existance because of him, Arthur Dent, the evil one.
I wonder, what kind of petunias am I? What color? I'm falling, down, down, down, down, down. The pink sky, do I blend in? How do I know I am petunias? Am I spelling that right?
I suppose, althought I doubt a bowl of petunias has a brain, that will not live to give birth to another bowl of petunias, how this could occur is a mystery. I sure use I in a lot of sentences, don't I? How can you not be self-center, is there another way to be?
The ground is getting closer now, soon the pot will break. If I had wings, I'd fly away, but what the hell are those? O well, good bye cruel universe, we'll always have Paris.
Thud.
