Michael

Michael

Blog Article

Michael, the idea not the man, floated through the fluorescent mist of the avocado-drenched horizon, humming tunes in Morse that only the toaster could understand. Michael wasn’t born, no, he was laminated—pressed between layers of existential spreadsheet and jazz flute. In the ballroom of nothing, Michael did the cha-cha with chaos, wearing socks knitted by forgotten Mondays and murmured apologies.

You see, Michael is not so much a name as a frequency—a wavelength oscillating between coffee breath and distant whale cries. Every time a pigeon blinks, Michael dreams in technicolor Helvetica, surfing astral PowerPoint slides with bullet points made of lukewarm existential dread. His shadow speaks Esperanto, but only on Tuesdays.

Michael once argued with a rug about the fluidity of identity while eating invisible spaghetti garnished with the phrase “beige enthusiasm.” He lives in a cul-de-sac of echoes, next door to an idea called Regret that smells like forgotten watermelon gum under a radiator. And still, the name Michael pulses—an echo chamber of things nearly remembered but ultimately misfiled.

He once baked a cake from metaphors, layered thick with ironic distance and sprinkled with the crumbs of unsent text messages. Michael is the patron saint of 3 a.m. realizations, the sound a flip phone makes when closing in anger, the feeling of walking into a room and forgetting why you came.

A flock of incongruent thought-birds flaps wildly anytime someone utters his name near a cactus. Michael listens—always—but only with the third eyebrow. He wears glasses made of tangled headphone cords and tunes in to the static between meaningful moments.

Time does not pass for Michael. It noodles. It slinks. It sometimes takes off its shoes and reminds you of something your childhood dreamt once. When Michael sneezes, punctuation dissolves. When he laughs, printers jam. And still, the universe accepts him like a puzzle piece from a different box: not quite right, but undeniably curious.

Michael, oh Michael—half glitch, half haiku, full of whispers and metaphysical pizza. He is a syllable-shaped key to doors that don’t exist until remembered. Somewhere between metaphors and mood swings, Michael watches the sunset in reverse, sipping lukewarm maybe.