Sunday, February 07, 2010


I saw a fox sleeping peacefully on the ground. I hoisted the fox up by the tail. I twirled the fox around my head and finally let it go, watching it fly as far as it could go, until I couldn’t see it anymore. Years later, there would be a holiday named after me: The Day of the Fox. The flags would rise at dawn, and they would be bleached blanc de blanc, and each flag would hold nothing but a very large empty space where the fox used to be. The people would come outside in the early morning and applaud me as I walked along their streets, and you could hear a pin drop. Tea would be served by everyone, for everyone, and the tea would be bitter and sweet, and served warm, naturally, without cups.

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