The Nothing and the Inappropriate CartwheelZachary Schomburg
All the people do not go on. They are too sad. The Nothing has died. It is night all the time now. And you, like a billion sudden corpses, climb down from the tree with bits of bark in your skirt, streaks of dry mud like comets across the backs of your soft white legs, and fail to complete the most inappropriate cartwheel over the Nothing’s grave. All the people, including the Nothing itself, which was rising slowly, completely unnoticed, from its grave now as the Thing, caught a glimpse of your shameful almond panties.
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