myths were made up of. The Giant Horse,
The Many Headed Serpent, The City Built on
One's Shins. Our world has collapsed into
nodules, we live in them, breathe in them,
floating somewhere in a space that rests on
the Giant Tortoise. I look around and see
everyone in their world. The city is a
crisscross of wireless communication. We
don't see those telephone wires anymore.
We see the sky gleaming, bereft of birds-
but no one has the time to look up now.