The Bolt from the Blue Goes Back to the Black

Black, of course, being inactivity. I suppose this means he has a life. No one with a life regularly maintains these leaky things, you see. But who needs a life when you've got three paragraphs of badly constructed, half-baked ideas to wrestle with every day? Still, I'm sure there are exceptions. But I'm excluding them for the moment.

A bubbling of clouds first spawned this proper noun and spat him dutifully on a median strip. For the passing, he was but a quirk in the day, and no one stopped to collect this freshly baked creature. Eventually he wisened just enough to place all his weight on his bulging feet and began the long, slow walk to the nearby town. Upon arrival, he was universally adored and bug-eyed shop owners couldn't help but shower him in all sorts of inexpensive gifts. Munching upon the Baker's treat, he made his little way to a small shack by the river and set up shop. A great idea slipped into his ear.

A couple of decades later, he was to the tailoring industry what necessity was to invention, and twice as better off. But he could afford no glue and soon fell apart. Fourteen hours later — or now, to be precise — he is off somewhere doing something. Who knows what? Who knows how? And does anyone care? Well, I'm sure he does. And I'm sure others do too. Oh wait, that was rhetorical.

Um... Oh boy.