 planting angel eggs on a dying world, planting angel eggs on a dying world at the feet of billboards in the clear-cut wastelands, by the rivers of tears from Yemeni mothers, under highway overpasses where defective gear-turners sleep, shambling from crater to crater on tree stump legs, wailing whale songs and praying to unprofitable gods, planting them in the ashes whispering, may there be kindness, may there be seeing, may there be artist lovers who are each other's muse, dancing a doomed dance, a dance of holy futility, a dance of madmen, a dance of heretics, a dance of censored saints of banished buddhas, singing a song of hopeless hope, irrational hope, unscientific hope, the hope of lovers and lunatics, a lunatics song sung to the moon. Dance with us, gentle stranger. Through this world of Disney deforestation and unexplored abysses, with unauthorized choreography and wonder-mented eyes, let us hold the line against the empire of earth-eaters, for no other reason than that where the only ones left who are crazy enough to try. There may be a hatching yet, gentle stranger. Humanity is not broken. Any more than an egg is a broken bird.