Donny and Windowman - Day 13

Part II: Oat Market

Donny was resolute. Donny felt the cascading tiles on his wall as they gently descended. He petted them softly as if they were floating soap suds in his bathtub. Donny quaffed his slime and exited, fell into a stroll, lifting each leg. A trail of wounded road fragments seemed to align magnetically into the direction he meant to aim. Rows of organized carbon matter seemed to descend upon his path from some grand chopping block situated far above. Donny marveled at what could wield such a block, as, what Donny called his 'seismic urn within,' started burning for a reevaluation of its resource allotment.

Windowman presided over a dark heap behind a torn glass window. Presumptuously, Donny waggled up to Windowman's roost, only to posit, "Have an oat? Nay a whole market of as yet unfluffed granules?" Windowman kept his visage from congealing. His firm response to Donny's gesture-ridden request was, "Null." Donny could not be sure if he had heard Windowman, or if a response had merely been imprinted upon some remaining whitespace within his brain. Donny tried to think critically about Windowman, but could not muster more than facial tissue stretching. Donny found himself trapped in a moment of Windowman's construct, whereby only preconceivedly permissible actions were possible for Donny. It was one-sided.

Underwhelmed, Windowman pointed at the vibrating ridge of the nearest stall. There was sparkling dust floating in the air between Donny and the ridge. Donny stood mesmerized, marveling at the sudden autumnal appearance of a springtime marketplace. He could sense the proximity of Windowman's heap, but was not sure whether through slight scent or through some kind of extra-sensory perception of the geography of Windowman's possessions. Windowman touched Donny on the shoulder and presented him with a placatory wad of damp wheat germ. Donny parried, and jumped back, at last free from Windowman's immediate grasp.

Donny found himself standing on a palette labeled 'Kumba.' While he pondered the origin of the name, Donny began to vibrate slightly, and noticed his surroundings were sinking relative to his location. He then wheeled around and noticed that Kumba was on a palette jack labeled 'Walrus.' Donny leapt, Windowman parried. Donny had bounced off Windowman's torn pane, but Donny sensed the heap had been disturbed, as Windowman was scurrying. Emboldened, Donny posited, "Shall the oat... what?"

Windowman recoiled and hurriedly poured batter into a large waffle iron Donny had failed to notice previously. When the machine hissed, Windowman slid it open with a knife and two spoons. A wisp of steam flushed out. Its heat intimidated Donny, who found his burgeoning confidence in a condition of waning. Windowman slapped the product of the iron onto the counter, and on the resulting waffle was an odd shape that Donny slowly understood to be a map. One spot was crudely labeled with an X, and another with a single oat grain, unfluffed, uncooked, inchoate. Donny knew he didn't need to follow the map anywhere. All the oat needed was right there. Ridges. Planes. Vast heaps of wrecked existence, land turned back into asteroids.