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.