Gone. Revoked. Forced to begin again. How the summers washed over the felt of his digit. A bit of loose change fell on the ground before his feet. Why, screaming from above, oh why, did it transform?
“A neuron like a die spilling with ant seeds go on up the granite!”
“You’ll take two of them?”
“I will have to if anything is to get done around here.”
The grain and the mountain. The wooden tracks he skipped over onto.
“Look!” A lady curled herself in jest across the tracks with whatever parts of her you wanted to see revealed. The man considered his digit again. The feel of her mouth, and then the feel of her thigh, and the sensation of an imminence with a pussy.
“How do I classify this?”
“I think a train is coming to run us over.”
This is how it ended. First, it seemed clear that the woman would disappear. At that point, the protagonist was able to find clarity on the horizon. A sentence or two described with a graceful lushness the seaside out beyond the hill, and for the first time, and also the end time, the man’s eyes glistened. However, this is not necessarily what is possible. Imagining his digits disappearing (gone in the Myrmidon sunshine), she gets up clothed and we develop sympathy for what had seemed a Potato-head object employed by Waste Control. Third, here we are, alone, sternly grasping for purpose.