Whatif whatif whatif the clay feet got sum of life in them and rolled beyond the die. Who would life affirm then? She be in flags or flitters, verbal litter, into the pitter but down with the patter. Lean on. Lying in weight, a heavy dose of natural museum body parts, somewhere in the past, here recalling, in the present, in the future, the false appearance of a beautiful follyage where avatar babies slumber in the nighttime mass of the mind's museyroom. May all their willing be dung.