First shoes in the moon’s bamboo garden were illuminated upward with each footfall. Someone to see the cracked mask lady. The wind had stitched patterns into world objects and glowblue animals were hiding in the reeds. Robed in a red robe, rough eternal skin, cutting rocks with a fingernail: she called out:

"First visitor, whose land is this land? and it is not mine, and its owner is unknown: when ripped souls drift by I mend them, and I keep company with the stars; and I am sustained; and you may leave now, having seen me, to tell all that I am real."

Still Eating Oranges

The tangerine waitstaff loped table to booth table to booth, customers crowded practically swinging from the rafters. Mr. Turtle and Ms. Marjoram offered compliments to the chef: their food was splendous. Mr. Dog wasn’t pleased with his meal. The waitstaff led him through, over, under twisting dining pathways to the kitchen to lodge complaint.

Back there in the greasy dinge steam chugged from appliances, boiling pots were stacked teetering to the ceiling and fogged figures of cooks scampered, fell with edibles. Only the head cook was clear with his gargantuan hands it was hard to work, he waved to direct cooks but nearly toppled various things, it was difficult. It was very difficult to work.

Still Eating Oranges

There are white dots in the distance, and the white dots shook against the horizon line. Windmill turned out on the periphery, from that goldish outside area the worker girl, enters the mill. Eyes, nose lit up in the light and she had grain. The windmill grinds this. Everyone with their own skill. Staring skitterer in the highest window, seeing through the turning sails, looked down as she went to work.

Still Eating Oranges

A fillet of cod, formaldehyde, dry paraffin and the frizzling spark of LIFE! “My ichthyoidic friend, be born!” A filthy light emanated from the alchemist’s melting pot. A rumbling jittered dust and books and a sandwich loose and sent them floorward to the limestone. In the pot flopped the impossible: a fish complete and alive. “Why do I live?” asked the fish as dawn peeked through an arrowslit. “I desire a companion in adventure,” said the alchemist.

The fish stared. “When my mustache is grown, I will go.” The alchemist raised his hands in exasperation—a mustache?! Already hairs had begun to appear, but a full mustache would take weeks to grow. He would have to wait. The alchemist set himself to righting the fallen books and scrolls and potions and food to the shelves.

Still Eating Oranges

Who keeps leaving sharp objects in the street at the corner of Vine and Fifth? Gray William.

Lives in a blanket, dances on bonethin legs. Gray William breaks into, homes to, break vases, into pieces, who knows it? The bloated hatted thing from the corner of an eye. Known by its disease. Calls to the children, c’mon kids, they slunch off into the night. Bridget thought for sure she saw something over there.

Still Eating Oranges