V.

Chubby is alone on the titanic wasteland,
mourning the loss of a friend. ‘I saw him
on the hill, walking toward the zenith, day
after day; and then one day I saw him no

more.’ The light of the star is remote and
on Titan, the dunes and the streams of
methane shiver with changing winds, a
desire to be free of mental blockades.

VI.

Desert Storm has not used a self-esteem
injection for a long while, and while she
walks with the two half wits (her words)
toward Volterra, her thoughts are dark.

Gawain and Cecco are always fighting
for who is the smartest, the most poetic,
and the handsomest. They are competing
for Desert Storm’s attention, though she

VII.

does not care one bit about one or the
other. She has been studying the life of
Monkey, and has correspondence with
la belle dame sans merci, who she ad

mires. It is not a secret that the rich and
the powerful are an example, and so
the very mad. Monkey is also headed
toward Volterra. He is troubled, and

VIII.

he bounces off and on the clouds,
stomping them as if they were mush
rooms. talking of michelangelo, there
is a roomful of painters in Volterra,

all assembled for the Dance of the Arts,
a rare event which has been organised
to celebrate the conjunction of Venus
and Adonis. The name of the planet on

IX.

which these events take place is not
known to me, dearReader. I am just
reporting what is passing in the wind.
This mythical city seems so very far.

And to be honest, with the death of
John C I have grown weary of the
criticisms of some characters, who
claim to love the verses, but not follow

X.

the story, they kind of refuse to comply.
The same with readers, they are so busy
now listening to the whispers in the
galaxy that they cannot find the courage

to connect to the solar system wide web
and download the NeverEnder. The ship
is exhausted, so much exposure, and for
what (for Hecuba, or was it Hector).

XI.

There is a growing sense of discomfort
in the ubi-verse, as if the qualms of the
atoms are of no interest, and the deeds
of infamous people are to be celebrated.

Mousieur Mortlock and Mephisto are
still about, and so the Marketeers and
Profiteers with their Privateers. They
steal, and they coagulate, and then they

X.

steal again. A large assembly of Laputa
scientists has convened for a massive
brawl to establish who is the loudest,
and the most successful cockroach.

But there is a new addition to the host
of cockroaches, for JohnC is reincarnated,
and he comes back as a cockroach. Belly
up (of course), he tries to communicate

XI.

with Chubby who is very annoyed about
finding insects in her flat. I mean! In this
gentrified day and age! I mean! Cockroaches
in my house, and a toad in the wall (watch

out, John C) who slurps on them! Chubby
is extremely pissed off, and she squashes him
with no hesitation, even if he was trying to
tell her how much he has missed her. So

XII.

he dies again, though this time it’s not a
big deal. Of course, it’s only a bug. But
then, a bug with the consciousness of an
infotechnician. Anyway, as the narrator was

saying (I hope he does not have the voice
of Harrison Ford, we have enough on our
hands with replicant cats, let alone replicant
sheep). This digression is too long and the

XIII.

thought is cut short. Ah yes! Desert Storm
is very busy remembering her days on the
Swappinstan planet. There is new celebrity
TV program of Swappinsteinish origin.

The host is discussing why secularism
in the Peak Civilization (France, yo) is
to be criticised for its hypocrisy and a
hundred prophetic reasons why the Swap

XIV

pinsteinish crowd has the moral high
ground. Particularly interesting are the opi
nion of one Swappinsteinish lady, who cri
ticizes the Peak for their terrorism of ideas.

What laughtearable matters! Thanks to the X,
Creme-caramel is still free, and her poetry
is still creating holes in the wall, and she still
dreams of a better world. It is hard to forgive

XV.

your enemies, especially the ones who
put you in prison, Oscar Wilde. Your story
of Canterville is haunting the twice-dead
John C who is trying to find some light

in the cosmic darkness, a mixture of the
Tibetan Book of the Dead, and the beauty
of a young Julie Christie. Or was it her
ways. Actually, it’s her ways right now.