Hi! I’m a moth dying on the floor of Tom Hanks’ closet. Thank you, it’s an honor to be here. The man has exquisite taste in carpeting.
There are loud thuds coming sporadically from the other room. Bet you’d never thought a moth in its final moments would use a ten dollar word like “sporadically,” did you? Oh, that was a really loud one right there.
I’m wiggling my little legs. See? I think my first exposure to Tom Hanks was something like twenty lives ago; I was an angel fish, and I dimly remember watching Turner & Hooch on the TV from my aquarium. My owner never cleaned it, though, so it was a little hard to see through all the… strings…
My old boss had a toilet mouth. It was clogged up and overflowing with brown water. That was when I worked at Silicon Graphics. This is better. Next time I own a house I’m definitely getting carpet like this in it.
What is going on in there?
Tom Hanks! I ate one of his linen shirts. I bet there were more than a few flakes of his skin in there. I probably have part of Tom Hanks in me right now! And my parents said I’d never amount to anything.
Cloud Atlas looks really stupid, sorry. I know that’s not a nice thing to say when he obviously went out of his way to buy the best moth balls on the market. Most moths wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between regular vanilla and French vanilla, but I happen to have rather refined tastes, so it really means something to me. If I had a damn WiFi signal, I’d be giving Tom Hanks’ closet one hell of a Yelp review right now.
Oh Jesus, I think my wing just fell off. Ugh. Now I look like–
uh oh, someone’s coming
no no no no no
OH GOD NO I’M SORRY
NOT LIKE THIS