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i see dinosaur bones at a museum. what big animals, i say. what big wings and teeth. there are a lot of people there, because dinosaurs are patriotic. we are all going to see the dinosaurs for america. old women with golden shoes are tapping on the glass and their faces are pressed against the glass. tap tap tap. they talk on the glass and things from their insides fog up the glass. these things are summers and aches from their youth. i can see them because i am using a powerful observation technique. because i am placing them in a glass case and their wooden plaque reads "old woman of the desert." there is a silhouette of her standing next to a silhouette of a cactus so people can get the general idea of her size. it says how fast she ran and her weight and something general about her personality or diet. then the old woman leaves and i look at my comrades over by the triceratops head and then it starts over again. tap tap tap, they say. and then it gets noisy in the hall like a school cafeteria and i want to leave because i do not understand these noises. it is not one collective commotion that varnishes my insides, but it is every single one. they all have sticking places in the air, you know. the sticking places are at the same level as my head. i walk through all of them as the wriggle about and it makes me achey and sad, it makes me a small person on the verge of uncovering the rotten childhood fallacy of santy claus. because there are just too many of us; we are all shiny happy people and it is probably blinding from above. it is not impossible through love, that is what everyone says. i believe this until i walk through the noises and put people in display cases and everything is ruined and maybe i am crooked with my maker again. everyone also says being crooked with your maker is something blatantly obvious, like having a shaft of steel potruding from your forehead. everyone does not know very much. maybe i am crooked. little words from the little mouths of giant people float about above our heads in that grainy jurassic. it puzzles me. but there they are, all strapped in tightly. all people. and they are doing things for america, like breathing and selling buttons. where did you come from where did you go. it is all very confusing. i do not know what to make of it.
by The JavaScript Source
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