Just start writing. Spray nonsense to start. Yellow bulbs of gum floating on brown oceans where mannequins swim in sewage. Charts are unable to represent the fierceness and the longevity of those mannequins dancing for their sanity, for the legacy. I feed them canned tuna and rancid chicken, known among mannequinistas as the magical elixer of exaltation. It makes them never want to stop dancing, down to the ocean floor, kicking up billions of years of sediment and sunken civilizations. The frenzy never stops even when the limbs and appendages disconnect. They remain in the choreography. It’s when the surprising expulsion of mannequins’ internal organs commences that the sea creatures get pesky. No one expected inanimate store props to have kidneys and constipation but it all spurted out, with greasy smiles and a sense of authority.
