The Plateau

The black sky closed oppressively in on the landscape, drowning the last cries of happiness in nature. I woke up on a plateau in Tibet. Some snow mountains and that kinda shit. A memoir of some obscure Hungarian hung on one of the branches of the tree on which I leaned my head so I could look up and examine the sea of blackness that hung damningly over my head. Clunk - the book fell off of the tree and hit me on my knee. I cursed loudly and then threw it at some nearby rock. I found two rocks to use as flints and hit them together to light a fire by holding it over a pile of dried brush that I had probably collected very recently. Once the fire was started and I was reasonably warm, I got to carving. Carved stuff, all over everywhere. Like a jack rabbit with a pocket knife, a line here, a line there, some squiggly crap over here 'Twas like a work of art that nobody would ever see because nobody came up here on this godforsaken plateau.

I was resting and sitting around when I felt something wet on my bare feet. Something started to smell bad, real bad. I looked up and there was something that looked like a winged alpaca. It seemed to think my dirty exposed big toe was a salt lick or something: it was licking it so fast and diligently that I thought that my foot would disintegrate from all of the saliva piled up on it.

BOOM. It exploded and my big toe was safe. Headline: RANDOM EXPLOSION SAVES BIG TOE FROM CERTAIN DISINTEGRATION BY THE HAND OF THE TONGUE OF A WINGED ALPACA.

I tripped and broke my knee. Damned Hungarian memoirs.
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EPILOGUE:

The rain came down hard and fast and washed away everything, and art was over. Into the puddles on the ground it went, despite all efforts for something to happen otherwise, to contradict the cruel reality that was the certain destruction and fading of art from the rock walls on the plateau in Tibet.