Sometimes I wish I could write in something better than words.
Throbbing vast translucent realities arranged on the page. The tracks
of fantasy trains, pure mentation on a disk. Pure mentation in indistinct
frameworks. Fantasy frameworks made of all shadows, just the bones
of realities. A hard thing built on ribs of ghost-vapor. The entire world is
a megaton dream of stone and soil, draped on rafters of dream.

 

Ringing rafters of drafty dreams. Dreams ping like ships on the radar.
Dreams ping strings like neighborboy cans. Neighboy cans from treehouse
to treehouse. If anyone can, a NeighborBoy[TM] can.

 

Tons of handheld dreams, megatons of handheld dreams blow in the
tradewinds, trading from continent to cointinent. The incontinent continents,
shitting sediment into the submarine canyons. Resting easy in silt, the
drowned lounging sailors, skeleton fingers interlaced behind skulls, eyes
fixed on the many new opportunities that have opened up since flesh was
lost to the angel tubeworms and crabs in the soft cubic yards of silt.