How cliche the rhythms of the bony snowmen. Each
pelvic thrust another cheap revolution, each coal-lipped
mouth brimming with little white lies. Zero is in the
bathroom putting on his [airs]. Summer’s come and gone
with its leather pills and its blue shoelaces. Day dorkens.
My final decision, as always, is to milk the fiction. This
inspires the navies and the tweeds, perks up the bottled
waters in offices everywhere, each suite replete with
blighted dog-lovers and deviled pigeon-feet. We work
our whispers fiendishly, nursing the plotbots with our
bitter yarls. Zero has finished his airs. Now we walk our
dim bulbs. Now we attack our earnest portraits. Now we
ignite Ninja Kitty City with our errant apples, our eager
headaches, our bloated verbs and our groused iPods.
