I don’t wait for sun to shine about me in the woods when I walk. Late and blackness still part when I move and I’ve never seen anything like lights in the hill or flashing knives. No junky shuffling about the trees, rape hardened claws white with wet. I did see, however, a procession of nearly eighteen riding lawn mowers come over the hill, dragging behind them yoked duos of tattooed deer. They came slowly and, at the bottom of the hill, single file, so that I could have time to process the pictographs inked into their flesh. They looked at me, the mowers, as if I had purpose and they were links in the chain of my success. And the deer stared blankly and beaten, a flesh book of cartoons about nothing (as far as I could tell.)
Rats chased cats with scissors and stuffed cheese and peanut butter into their swollen crevices. It continued from shorn deer hide to shorn deer hide. If this were a message from the future, or from space, or from the fungi, they picked a rather dull interpreter in me, but I took a piece of their proffered paper and wrote upon it:
VIOLENCE AND GLUTTONY WITHOUT END? At which they laughed, bowed their heads in apology, and went about their way, mistaken.