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A Reformation by Pastries
The revolutionary sits upon the embroidered tree stump at the crest of the emerald wave. He sees the salmon melting into the tuna beneath him. Does he realize that what he percieves is not illusion but introspection? Sometimes he is pleased by the melodic machinery beneath the wet sand. What does it look like? What does it do? Is it sarcasm? A mockery? Or is this man serious? He looks up to see a silver screen projecting the image of a bamboo tobacco pipe. It has now been Jun 1st for 33 minutes. They have already placed mirrors on the shore of Llanfaethlu to burn incoming vessels. Sending Joe to the locker, is that what you want? I deeply fear that it is. I peer down the corridor to see you playing a flute made from narwhal horn and chewing coca leaves. The crazed look in your diamond eyes makes even the dust flee.
