One quarter through life some God-ly like thing created

Monday morning I awoke with a startle, and, lazily rubbing my eyes, realized I was twenty years old. Slowly my legs transitioned from horizontal to vertical and shoes were on my feet leading me- leading me. Professors, parents and proliferators of profundity were howling at me. With faces constructed by Edward Munch, the banshees tore my clothes and hair. And I, alas- I breathed and I blinked. And subsequently, and by consequent of that blink, they were gone. I made them go away because I am twenty years old, and I can do that.
Now traveling on my own accord, I looked up- removing the sunglasses that I had bought and worn since High School, I saw the sun- it was blue set in the yellow sky. I wanted it as thus, and so it was- green clouds gathered and rained shadows around the turquoise spotlight that circum-luminated me. Teeth twenty years in the forming smiled.
To my surprise as I stepped over social constructs festering on the curbs, a tower permeated the street and rose up toward the heavens. Atop the tower, a gothic spire appeared, and as it rose, pierced the sky. Separating the clouds, the spire slashed the sky and, the blood of the cosmos fell down, pooling serenely in my furrowed brow. My forehead relaxed and the blood poured over my face and began to collect rapidly at my feet. As it elevated to my knees and waist, I started to swim- for any twenty year old can swim in the pouring blood of the universe.
Despite the congealing nature of the thin molasses drowning the workforce, but not me, I swam the backstroke with perfect form and moved on through; wondering what would happen when Mother Nature got a blood clot. And then, when her scab finally did form, I stood up and did a back flip because I’m twenty years old.
I wanted to die for an hour, so I had a beer and slept; perfectly acceptable. When I woke up, I had a plum in my pocket- I took a bite and threw the rest at a man in a grey suit trudging by with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He did not laugh when he was struck- rather he cried- and in doing so, he slowly died. He must have been twenty-five. On stilts made of red-bull cans I hopped through the rest of the afternoon. As evening stole the colors from the sky, I met with other twenty year olds- all goggle-eyed from the day. We found cause to share the events that formed the whimsical look and feel in our countenances and laughed; eating whatever the fuck we wanted for dinner.
Desert was served by a banker, but it was too sweet. I was unable to dislodge the bites getting stuck between my teeth and started to cry. The tears welled slowly and then with fleet fell furiously at my feet. The tears began to melt my shoes, socks, legs and body, and in the metallic pool accumulating beneath me, I look down and saw the reflection of what was left of my face; it was a frowning twenty-one year old. Upon my complete disintegration, the bankers walked away smiling, searching for lawyers and doctors so that they might share the story of my disintegration.
All that was left of me was the vapor of my thought. It rose to the ceiling like fog on a river and hovered for a moment, existing in and of itself for a beautiful, brief instance. Then, with a jerk, this vapor was sucked in through the end of a trader’s expensive cigar and then- pause- it was exhaled out as a meaningless cloud of smoke. I was twenty-two.