Wild, winsome smirks break their teeth on the concussive stone of another body, unironically stone-legged, seriously prepared to absorb the sword of another person. Sideways Damocles, they call it. Keep that smile in the pantry, next to the powdered sugar, and be sure to mistake both for flour the next time you're baking snacks. Instructions inside. Motionless particles, articles of wraith, haunting the hands until the big sink at the end of the time limit. Our boldness effaces our coldness, the calculations coming fast enough to faucet through noses only breathing out. If air comes in, the lips must part again, and our people will never be let go. Whose people, though? And where are we mouthing onto? Rocks, climbed one mustache at a time, ignore that age-old rule: left with legs, arms flop about. What are they flopping about? It's called language. Crook it up in the tree, where it's going to last longer, until a picture appears of a technology that will make mediums maximum and the notion of communication, a sad relic of an angry past.