(no subject)

Ariosto never knew that that little bright world that wanders by above is a lost sock itself. In fact, Earth's Lost and Lost Desk was the first thing it ever misplaced. Imagine the chagrin! Like finding your entire ass had fallen off back on the road somewhere. Unless maybe it was the head. Poor moon, if so: stuck just out of arm's length, alternating between amazement and puzzlement at the adventures of its former body. Or was it voluntary? Maybe, like Wakefield, it went away just to see what would happen, to see if that sort of undoing could even be done, like an introvert Iago. What might become of a moonless Earth? Well, this. But Wakefield came back. It may be that the moon awaits its moment. When thought returns, what will our world think of us - or will we become its thoughts? Maybe it left its thoughts behind, bled out onto its neck and torso. Abandoned to skim about on the alien outside, electric lice rubbing together to release a little light. To feel like we felt when we all glowed one color at once.

A head that's on straight? Two socks? No more spinning around.

Worlds like that are going places.