Monday 1/19/2009 12:05:00 AM

Tortoises and wolves. The corset on the stories good girls tell. The discarded underwear lonely men will sniff. To convince themselves they haven't lost. Anything.

Picnic baskets on the ground. In the shadows of empty red hoods. And smug piglets. Bragging about stick houses.

They all blow down.

Even the brick ones.

Just louder.

The ant with the dew drop on his back doesn't think about how he can carry it. He has to. And so he does. Time doesn't think about how it can spoil all these fairy tales. It has to. And so it does.

Because we are frail. Slips of paper driven by the wind. To places we would never otherwise go. We are stamps in the metal. Of machines that are always running. But never move.

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