Look at the stars. Where? Up there. He looked and was amazed. They took each other’s hands and ran through the fields, not caring what animals they upset or what plants they trod. When they arrived at the river they met with a small man playing the piccolo. Look at the small man playing the flute. It’s a piccolo. I don’t care, I like it. They kissed and jumped in the river. They lay, and the river carried them, through the fields, down the mountain and into the village. They sprang up and entered the local diner. There was little Johnny. There’s little Johnny! They ran to his table, grabbed him by the lapels, took him outside and beat him to within an inch of his life. Little Johnny would never mess with the local fruit politico again. When the police turned up, they were nowhere to be seen. But later that night, everybody in the village heard the familiar sound of lovers giggling in the treetops. And, of course, the next day all the puppies were dead. It was a sad time.
