Solar praxis, the cracked Police. Wandering across the wonderdevice.
Across the wonderstrand. The Witwatersrand. The Burg Police, a phalanx on
the salt flats. There they are in the middle of nowhere. What on earth
are they looking for on earth? Laughing, they return to their craft,
following their own line of interweaving bug tracks back to the ship
where it sits like a soft boiled egg in a cup.

The bug police. The insect cops. The insect coppers. Wild waters on the
winter silence. The winter pond silence on the flashing windows of
winter. They're made of ice. They're made of eyes. In summer the eyes
will melt. The windows will melt completely, and out will peer the bears
and the pears and the voles and the suns. All the summer suns hibernate
in the northern lands, hibernate in Hibernia, hybernate in Hyperboreas,
deep in the chambers of Jotunheim.