The flamingo was painted on the door; John felt it staring into him. A finger had written in blood on the door. It said “mirrorS arE morE fuN thaN televisioN”. The flamingo turned to look at him, both eyes now fixed on his. John felt exposed. It said “thE flesH oF falleN angelS” in a cold, mechanical voice.
If I had one of those monster Walkmans I'd hollow it out and put an MP3 player inside it. Then I'd carry it around with me everywhere while wearing glasses I don't need and a gas station attendant's shirt that's got someone else' name on it. The overload of silent irony would utterly destroy the jocks who beat me up in highschool.