Here’s another true story: It’s eleven eleven and I am
watching the pretty-color sky. There goes my shooting star.
Zero sees it first. Mine hits the ground somewhere near
Mount Dragonsnort. More giddy, we keep walking. No
where is the whistle of the train, nor the whimper of its
many sell-outs. Nowhere Kaiju. Watch what happens. The
disparate fictions of mini-languages. And we are desperate.
Zero keeps running into the rotten headaches with great
measure of predictability. Our [legs] go around the plot as
we find our dim bulbs, punch out every growth spurt. Re
lying on our evolution, we carry ourselves through a dumb
limbo for many bruised years. Only kidding is the yarn star
who knocked himself into that greedy mountain. Our allies,
the London Squabs, call all the blue taxibots for reinforcement.
