Shellac, box-knife closed on the table top, 4pm sun wrapping around the brick foundation and depositing on twig arms. Breaths moving uphill, feet walking down the soggy concrete to look out at the sound and wonder what may travel with tomorrow. Leaves of pages stacked in their covered shells, backs facing out away from the support wall, a wall whose topography holds within it the clustered random uniformity of the CMB. Minds sitting on rocks contemplating the furthering of academic knowledge in a park that’s roped with metal siding, a part etched with “…Theseus and Ariadne…” spiraling out into rock-set phases of the moon. 

You are now connected to Piccone Network.

“… gunned down outside a local cookie store …”

Luigi, an optometrist out of Sicilia, maker of the most intricate glass eyes available anywhere in the world. Orbs glazed with subtle colors and hues, magnificent calculations of pattern proportions and perspective. Eyes began rolling around the street as folks learned of this ocular master, popping out an eye or two to have a chance at obtaining one of Luigi’s eggs as he called them, “an idea of life sprouting out of a solid cage, imagination hatching from the shell of one’s mind, you create what you can’t see.” Luigi was eventually knocked off by the head of an eyeglass repair outfit in Palermo, the lack of seeing eyeballs effectively ruining his business. A silent flurry of bullets slid into the stomach of Luigi while asleep in his tiny studioloft. 

Hey, “Nice neologism btw”