It is brown there out by the gambling house. Hulking, phallic, but nonetheless beautiful, it is a god-like presence. We can imagine a god to be childish. We can only imagine a god to be childish.
We wander the grounds. Seventeen topiaries stand where once there was nothing but sand and needles. Seventeen children of the Milky Way, grafted onto its skin as if covering up some minor mistake. The light reaches us in soft ripples, the pulse in our flesh slows, and we feel a foreign nourishment. It coincides with an accidental touch.
