The rain doesn’t stop the story nor the dancing, nor the
red pills of bruised yarn. Bubble Girl doesn’t know the
difference between a mouse and a bird, so we grow
soaked roses, stay silent as Zero draws nearer. Or also,
Zero nearly dances as we grow silent. These are mere
words of the dance, including love punching and clown
tilting (less of the latter than the breakdowns). We’re
an alliance of greedy plot, barely escaping the loopy
newsreel, but driven by more than one punch, more
than one red pill. I go to bed for the [fire] in each
movie. Among us are Italy, the pigeons, the pink
strollers and the mugwumpers. Nowhere is Zero.
Our damp language makes angst out of daisies, del
ivers another vengeful blow to Martini-Man. Snap!
