Will call for critter lane in the caboose, grinding wings into titanium nuggets. Before the wheel, before steam punk, everything powered by chattering teeth, platelets, coach whistles. You’d have to walk the long mile over deadfall and rock. Attempting to count the number of faces in the rock would send you off-balance, tumbling down the mountain. Before helmets, the head served to protect the heart. Nothing but a bump on the head. Rocks whizzing by, their faces smiling, as you go falling backwards, towards the whistle, into a pit of chattering teeth, an endless pile of rodents in the darkness.
If only sleep came as you sank deeper and deeper into the pit, into the grinding gears of their incisors and nails.
[Visit full site to view media]Hidden Features by Joe Mygan