The rabbit-headed man has a box made of time-threads in which the actual sun is a prisoner. The sky-sun is just a dream replacement. I live in one of his pockets and the souls of flowers are my eyes. One day I will let the real sun out, but I must wait until the doorway speaks. His left leg is made of living keys, but it looks perfectly ordinary. There is a volcano in his bed. When it erupts, naked white girls emerge, pleading for the pleasure-way. Some of them carry bouquets of living birds. Others have orbiting wasps.

The crow-headed man comes over and they play a game which makes wars happen for humans. Usually a ghost who lives in the moon wins, and the game is drawn. Like the sun-box, I am a container. I record the activities and parasites of the x-headed people for the masters who are like octopuses. They live in space and are made of networks of filaments which shine and seethe.

We are the filaments, and this is one of our stories.