For months, the artist pounded his sculptures on her roof. The walls vibrated and guided her violet pencils in sibilant automatic drawings. Her blue irises unfurled and flung themselves from paper breath arabesques. And she forgot.
Nietzsche’s memberships to Dead Societies looked like Venn diagrams. He didn’t get invited to the Dead Syphilitics’ parties. At gatherings, he would strut around drunk as Bacchus and say that God was dead.
In her village, whenever someone had a problem with bees they called the village hypnotist. He would speak and the bees would leave the hexagons of their honeycomb behind.