taunts of bad hair boy-men transfix the play yard. mine is bigger. no mine. look.
there is no alternative channel for the cartoon among nations.
our smiley wiley has chased some tail feather off a cliff and stands now unbound by ground, animation suspended.
‘tis only a matter of time until the forces of nature overcome their shock at the effrontery and shame gravity to reassert its inevitable grasp on matter and mass.
But what then goes before the fall? This abyss extends how deep? And whose tongue flip says meep-meep?