Above, a flunky blinks in code. There is a moon. There is no goddamn moon. A radiator – prison bars but warmer and rounder. The igloo isn’t cold enough for a tragedy. I could, by deforming, touch the puppet strings of a mandolin and an apron on a season’s outset and fashion. It is never filled by thinking. Where classic becomes an unfeeling game. The theft of glyphs. A fossil fumble shapes of movies. Then, the animal trips into a reflect, playing and cutting colors. The crash of symbols to wake him from slumber. I know how to fight a duel without an enemy. The culture of discontinued knowledge rolling. Blowing oneself up until the highway persists. There is a moon. There is no goddamn moon.