Taiwanese Mailman

When all of the rabbits came out of that book made of ghost-lettuce, I recognized it as the sacred toilet-diary of a 6 year-old Paraguayan hitman. His name was Jorge Alexandro Bimini Tetravonich. I cannot figure out how he did his job, because he was made of wax. I actually have him in my pocket, in a specially engineered thermos so that he will not melt. The doll is impregnated with anomalous objects like chunks of poems and little fuses and bone. It makes a squeaky noise if a shadow is near it. I was told this was ‘a sophisticated accoutrement’, but I could see the greasy pig in the corner was watching me with a glint in its bank accounts. About that time, I began to hear absurd couplets. Stuff like, ‘There’s a bunker of cash in this rascal’s ash.’ Tiny golden maggots with wings suddenly filled the air, shining, singing. The song sounded holy, or at least, as if the sun was having tea with a distant gravity source of unthinkable magnitude. Oh, did I mention that they called the kid Jabt? Meanwhile the rabbits had formed themselves into a florid visual articulation of some Arabic word of furious significance. In fact, every time I returned my attention to them, the word was re-assembled by a mailman in Taiwan who developed that plastic machine with which he controls me. Some of its strings are made of god’s old hairs, and that’s why I am such a patriotic guy.