Hi. Hello from the egg. Ha ha. Hello. First thing, the man on the grass won't stop licking me. The egg is warm and it is a great thing to be at, let me tell you, finally. Everything is finally, finally. When did you or I say I was leaving and returning? From so little to big, yes. The man on the grass is dying, finally. The egg is finally sour enough to talk about. The sour is finally. The little hello from the licking grass is the man dying over it and what's become of the children? I've not heard a peep. The jumper is here now. I will let you go to the races for the sake of the egg, finally. One thing, the thing needs a decent steam-bath before eating, let me tell you. All this oxygen I've discovered. It gets into everything and the egg is a sanctuary, relief from the dying grass man waxing and waning. There's milk, no? In the fridge? Check it. All is mostly my swollen head from all the oxygen we can't get away from, but otherwise. Okay. I will see you tomorrow, as they say, before saying, maybe, lest the thing cracks and licks the grass man, finally.

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Photo detail on main page courtesy of Bob Travis.

Read DL's story, "Art."

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