Let's all assume we survived the Disaster. We're huddled among the broken brick, warming ourselves by paltry fires, and a cold ashy rain has begun to fall. In the distance: the booming of artillery inching closer. When the army sweeps through for the third or fourth time, what can they do to us now? We're ghosts, little wisps of smoke from funeral pyres.
The unspeakable can only be approached through metaphors and metaphors are like sparrows carrying bits of stuff over borders between distant points, connecting one anomalous place with another and thereby creating a new map of unspoiled lands. Thus the world is fertilized, readied for a new crop of Disasters.
Here's some advice: No one likes to admit they're fighting on the wrong side and they'll kill you for even suggesting it; so don't bother. At the roulette table, the best way to beat the house is to bet as if there weren't any numbers at all. Children on horseback often seem like the answer, but no matter how appealing the idea, they aren't. People who grow sunflowers are happier than people who don't. Should you, while sleeping, dream of chewing small chunks of very rare beef and find yourself enjoying it, do not believe, not even for a minute, that your days as a vegetarian are over.
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