On another planet, a silvery starlet is brooding on her salary. Some gangly ranchers are blindfolding her for her own good, or so they say. It’s all part of some lawful research, or maybe they said “awful research,” I wasn’t listening. I was roving down a chestnut lane, thinking about origins in a contrite sort of way, amid the nearly inaudible society of aphids and such, modulating my little hireling feet none too carefully, an average stroller praying for keepsakes, or at least one, when I heard this eerie squeak from afar. For reasons which I refuse to explain I knew instantly what was going on, and I tried to negotiate in my rudimentary way. I offered up some rose petals, I think they were tempted but liked playing tough because it was in their contract or something. So I offered to play the fiddle on their patio for a whole night. No deal-I don’t think they knew what a fiddle was, which was actually lucky for me since I have but one tiny tune. I sat down on my chestnut lane, tempted to sneer at my own timidity. Those squeaks from afar, all that damned distant research, provide the only keepsake for this day, my momentum crushed. Hours pass, crows pass, a pheasant crashes into an oak tree. In a dream she says to me, “Thanks for caring, mister, but it’s all part of the plot, and I’m getting paid awfully well.” And now I can hardly walk.