A pukka is a special kind of germ, with glossy wings of checkered leaves, and eyes, beautiful eyes, like a frivolous sunset dipped in a silver sauce.

Oh skye, skye, art thou a delectable bumble bee, where words do not matter, and giant peaches roll in the moonlight. Your gaze smites them to the middle spleen, and they fall helpless at your toes.

None may help me.

What can they do, but toss the buttoned slipper up again into the shattered night sky? There are a thousand stars, like a thousand cats' eyes, and they look upon the shifting sand and curse my silent underwear.

Midnight is near. I stand before a yawning pit, and there are pineapples.

Everyday I inch nearer. What holds me back?

Almost nothing, almost nothing.