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The four "horsemen" chatter in their teasets, roomed by ornate furnishings. One breathes an androgenous sigh lifted on a nasal tone, against the soft cackling of firelight in the background. He is the gangleader, the man with the soft white hardboiled hair, and the dogmatic eyes, fierce and knowing, like a robeless priest clutching to the scroll that refuses to unfurl.

One imagines that he must have stalked Conquest to boredom, or dimmed the tide of Death that foams around us as abandoned shells, through the use of a device at once hollow and useful and dependable and helpless. Of course, only the accursed nature of the present - that is the latent idea, the innate joke, that finds twisted celebration in the fact. Tough-mindedness - like a turtle that parades its scarred shell, to no less than children, weaned on demanding lies, and still captivated, as always, by the nature of the sick exhibition.

So the sordid gang crept along the pathways of its reptile truths, knocking, as it were, at the door of hermits, begging for assistance, and receiving none. It was as if yore responded to yore and found them merely sensate and severly lacking, as if they were repacked into ideas that lept into unkempt mailboxes, but fell out through the ages.

So, what of this impossibility then? We speak of inevitabilities here, such as the wingless crow, or the dirtface Ron. Well, believe it or not, it clatters like a wheelbarrow over diminished cobblestones, carrying earth, that unknown entity, too numerous to handle, yet convincingly amorphous, like water.