You follow Stephen around like a dead trout, upside down and meshed, shark skin pained by gears. And in the washroom, shower head asks who are you? where are you from? water around, echo fades.
A satellite wrung in from the forest, bleeps findings: tools understand, relay between me and the wilderness.
The button. And it's there. Graphs and pie charts spew out of the lazer printer, chapter headings gestured in red ink.
Wait for the owner behind the ditch. Rip the line out the back of your head, hooked with bad meat, tenured to shakra.