VII

There but dented, the saucer that fell dreamlike from the empyrean as grand as needing to tell a story. And the story goes of gods, rich reliable ones, who did once in future days decree some slim marvel brand of bargain on our world. And we as small as smell did reach for this noose, comfortable to prop. And as those gods are serious political whores, we understood right well the proposition. Conning tower of submarine peeks above the rugged waves, then the sub rises. No sub indeed but interplanetary convenience as good to say as nice new pope. Vend further wavelengths when you cry, said that political flurry come alive. Scads of detected strongholds exist. The margin will not hold.

So the mighty dragon ships pile into the bay while screech from the mainland tells the fear. This is resistance to order in its very token, cried expert and ne'er denied. Bells ring. It is the odour of the day. And something about the mere presence of the stunning news, in our land, as we plan a day again: it fills our remorse with the source of flowers.

16Greezl'po alights in a confrontation, but only to the degree that anyone plans ahead. Sparking away from deserts to remain poised for the infestation of where else can one go, this is the impervious relation of 16Greezl'po to he significance of our grand day. You could join him, you know.