Where lies the pad on which truth scrawls? Search in the desert; for there I will begin.
So, the crane kid said: you are nothing, not even a drop, or a cliff edge that holds summer grass and sheds love-moistened tears as it falls, scratching the terrain of my thoughts, its jagged pinnacles of anxiety, in its gullied descent into despair, its furtive snowlike hope. What?
So, having to interrupt myself, as all do, to discover who I am, I lurch forward like a detuned automaton, uttering robot sounds, cremating life in an echoing auditorium without projectors, or worse, eyeballs.
Of course, a couple of mad scientists enter. They stare hard at their invention, the reincarnated Frankenstein, who pleats his hair into complexity, into Afro.
“I told you to decommission him”, the first scientist said, “look what he has done to our reputation, especially among the bioresonance researchers in the Academy of the Arts and Sciences.”
“The president has lost faith in our latest project”, the second added.
“Yes, that’s likely”, the third scientist said, “but we have use for another nightmare tester."
Somehow I felt myself tumbling off the stage.
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