Yes, O myth, tingling besides a great map of the Sun, the killer of worlds. Every colonel and angry young man is now a Napolean. Thousands of Napoleans dragging bombs through the empty deserts like ancient caravans.

The Myth is a Killer of what people want to become. Evaporation of dreams. The Holy Pit of Nothingness where the banished devils go.

Of all densities, this density, this goddamnable density with a deadly circumference shouting at every millisecond, "you are gone and will not come back!"

A fluid leaks out from the local into the globe and traces a path people rush into, spilling something good in themselves along the way. Ah victims!

"So I was told to go be normal even though the cities could be destroyed in one second flat or less. There was a kind of normal evaporation of millions of beings I suppose. There was a normal disease that worked quiltlike throught the afflicted. Under the cloud came the speech of the politician who rationalized it all as, "necessary under the circumstances," and "a part of us we dread but will use under extreme threat."

They would have, I feel, been glad to place myself into the bomb itself either to kill a city or simply test to make sure the old bugger worked ok. I would be a feeble cry suddenly expanded five miles in diameter and flashing around with beautiful lights before being lost in the tsumumi like cloud.

"And will they put one on our favorite garden? And will snow lay on the river this winter?" "The madmen will blame us for building the cities and a grand diaspora will empty millions into the artic region from which a new ice civilization will arise." "From the air it will look like massive ants moving through a sea of ice cream." "The tilt o' the earthie will be slightly askew." "The maps will be gone and men will resemble hairless upright rats with hunger in their eyes."

Great shadow that destroys all before it, you are some new type of dragon even the heroes are afraid of. So a few go out to fight it and are turned to crazy hyenas among complacent smiles that want nothing to do with anything but that which tastes good. Bomb. Gleeful exclamation of cruel people. Pure necessity when the cities are too quiet. Great play in the brain of innocence, over and over high on the hilltop where the silver things drop and drop and drop.

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