The Iron Wind, rogue wave by rogue wave, conveys a succession of Love Knievels <3.4 Hz> heaving and groaning over Mt. Sinai and Mt. Doom. Grunting because they’re hungry [masculine] and they’re hungry [feminine]. The platelets of their armour contract and expand as they hurdle. Perfect body no body. Perfect copy no copy.
Catch us, Pieter Bruegel, as we fall toward the silvered slab of the coroner, guided to our destination by a signal-to-noise ratio lower than the amperage of a lie detector’s early morning aleatory. A stray hare has wandered into the arms race, only lately recognized as a Turing Point in history.