That’s not a horse. That’s an insect of some kind.

The more I talk, the more questions you ask. And the more unselfconscious you get around the farm. It’s great. I love seeing you relax and open up. I figure the more I say out loud…

Every sentence is a strip of flypaper. You catch more flies with speech. My voice feels like ground gravel rubbed into my ears. My glasses are permasmeared with fish-oil.

When I was a baby, my groovy uncle warned me about the future. It’ll sound like a cliché, he said, that helmeted insect horses with proboscis cocks will fly up into your info-farm, but be warned: it’ll happen. There’ll still be public transportation, but it just carries you along the walls of the abyss. You won’t be jaded and take your cell phone for granted. You won’t be like, Man, I thought I’d miss being allowed to eat while I read.