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Flightpath 2.0 Claudia Grinnell
 

Forget about newsprint, clear fiber optics or aluminum. Our best efforts must now be focused on more important things: decorating the cell next to mine. Perhaps Asian Fusion, drag in the artiste from New York. A woman up there does that too, but she’s not in tune with the rocks and I want to be sure the rocks sing, aligned with all the major and minor chakras. I’ve cut corners on previous endeavors, none particularly successful in terms of bottom line or anything. We did make some converts and brought them back to the compound, bade them work on the bamboo flooring and recycled bombs—the ones that didn’t work the first time.  The plant, not the parish, blew up, plugged traffic from Bossier past the horizon, three men and countless women thrown from their beds. Water elements at every angle a must have—essential-- and know damn well that other wars come with the spreading clutter. Water wars, wars to smite all other wars ride to the sound of the guns. Backwater guards doubled, pointless as it might be, to have my water as is my God given right. For the Lord Almighty spake it so in a good stern talking to, with eyebrows pinched and fingers jabbing. A dip in the river of salvation next year, the monthly bills and the true pure love of a son for his mother unite in the flowing waters cascading, collecting pool-like. Water elements at every angle a must-have—essential.