We cannot know this, but it feels correct. Being terribly small, smaller than gnomes, we seriously consider erasing ourselves. Delirious cucumber harvesters fall, exhausted, into oblong nightmares. Demons rise from the soil, spraying our fears with a viscous, salty fluid. This fluid is the breath of life. Plants long dead come alive and draw themselves up out of a steaming broth. A cracked plate throws itself through a restaurant window. The family afraid to deny the convict in the bathroom is bound for disaster.
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