Later, by the side of the crick, a man with a crick in his back tries to
knit rickshaw sweaters together into some sort of coherent personality,
but succeeds only in buying into the grander scheme set into motion by
the great Fish God that lurks beneath the drainage ditches, who washes my
dishes while I sleep and makes strange lumbering sounds, who sneezes into
a glass of water for me to drink. This fish god, who makes all things
connected into one great whirling stream crick going by the sides of
people's houses everywhere, crept into the little crick in the man's back
and said to him: You are a cricket. You like water. You will drown
yourself. And in a vain attempt to hold his personality in one piece by
means of a knitting needle and a harpoon, he finds himself hurtling
through the air high above the treetops in an irrevocable arcing
trajectory destined for Pickman's Lagoon. "Ribbit", he says, and as the
first layers of the skin of his lips hit the water, he becomes a toad
with six legs and wings, which being close but no cigar, quickly drowns.
And rued the day, as he died, he ever touched that ole answering machine.
Let this be a lesson to evildoers,
Icarus Damocletian QPM