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Won't it be funny, ten years from now, when we look back at what we laughingly refer to as the pitchfork incident? In the meantime, when I look in the bathroom mirror, a face reflects back to me so much like my own, I almost say good-bye. I must be the one who makes others feel afraid. No one could guess what animal I was supposed to be. By that I mean, it's lonely here, in winter, in the middle of everywhere. That's where I was born. A place I would like to visit, if the earth weren't so curved and prone to deception. Such a void and lovely blind spot. Now we're chronic. That's the beauty of silence. I told them, and they nodded their heads as if they understood.
 Not any more, said the man who hit him with a hammer. I love you; I will kill you just the same. I vowed then to paint two eyes on the back of my head, to march forward. My desire to think monkey and be. I had glue, and all the time in the world. The family was too busy forgiving itself to care. He got exactly what he came for, and was forgotten by his fellow gods, who were too busy doing and undoing the deeds that never get done. There was much left to do, but now, at least, one task had ended. All at once, he began to develop another strategy. Smaller, more manageable, he kept repeating.
I was still awake, dreaming of a green void where I could breathe my lungs clean like a patient on an operating table lit by concern of those who cut him. I simply wept to think the puppets weren't real. I remember telling this story to the doctor in Antarctica, who couldn't quite fathom my meaning. Help. I think that's what I mean. Let's ask the dog we killed last night.
Sentences sourced from Christopher Kennedy's Trouble with the Machine.
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