Chickens. Chocolate ones. A rooster comprised of nothing more than sheet music, ripping out his predawn affirmations of light. There are chickens in the waves of the ocean, the clouds of the sky, the movements of the trees. The greatest secret in the world is hidden inside a chicken that the president keeps at an undisclosed military location. Chickens made of tea. I had a dream in which I married a chicken, and we had little mechanical egg-children all over the floor. You think there are conspiracies, but you are mistaken. In fact, there are only chickens. There only ever were. Everything else is… just a facade.