By David Eide  

For a lingering moment the world lacked a place to put its hat; it lived scarified at the wood's end, in a hut, alone, occasionally entertained by a bat. It ran from one tree to the next and fell and rolled in a big wide meadow where the sun had browned the grass. It acted as though it had already died; as though its legs were withered and its brain looped over dreary branches. A bird came down and offered assistance but the world bucked up in crazy resistance; and finally the moment passed. They all pass down to the single dot that will suck the futile universe down.


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