Metallically foul, though pure, the smell of a skunk seeps through. I find it strangely addictive. Somewhere along this stream beavers slap mud on sticks, waiting for ice to form. A water tower looms, its hydrocephalic head perched on a steel stem like a rigid pollywog, and I am a talking fish in search of a species with ears. I must see to the heart of things whether you hear or not.
Gargantuan hands rest easy now.
Folds of robes flow from your throne in static waterfall, a Greek convention in American marble. He the machine, you the Christ embalmed in stone under cool portico, resurrected in cold recall. The one about Grant and the whiskey would do. Sergeant walks point through sucking mud, dreams of hot showers through scent of blood, the radio man's antenna seems fragile as the idea of civilization. Yosarian, send in the clowns.