Lost city of the broken draft, Cadu is a pile of turnips rotting in the moonlight, begging for a trundle. Sagacious as a small pea, its typical inhabitant wears a crown upon his head to hold his mirrors in. While the powers of the crown have been disabled, still its physical properties bear mentioning. In another forum, perhaps. Sizzling with fury, the senile old junkyard presses home its non-existent advantage, tying up loose ends and splitting dead deals. Cadu has all the bonhomie of a prune. The days here are like auctions, randomly-announced, building towards their voyeuristic climax and then suddenly passed in, with an enormous boom from the thunder mallet of darkness. All of this has been written before. Only the names, places, dates, events and outcomes have been changed, to ensure the originality of our infinite oblivion. Even the end is intimate, here. Swallow the fermented juices of a sting-inducing weed, then bellow at the dogs waiting for scraps of conversation. Wheels? Who needs them? Of course, I’m making that up. The fruit stalls are like bullet trains, arriving at pre-meditated and occult destinations at some supposed time, their wheels a necessity should the pregnant skins of their products split before parturition (in the normal sense) and force the jettisoning of profits. Can you hear me, Cadu? Your days are numbered, beginning with eleven, and ending with three. There’s quite a crowd here. Queues form for the most basic of supplies, including regiments and cases for nuts. Come to think of it, I am a nut. Hey, we’re all nuts. Perishable, programmed and pissed-off. We have no outlet for our powers. Houses rot from the inside out. Yes, you rain, and while the sound of you on my roof may be appealing, I must live with the knowledge that once I step through that doorway of hope, it will pelt down on me too, without mercy, Cadu. All of this is tiddly-winks to you. Did I mention nuts? Blast.

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