I was stretching out thin membranes of seal-skin, beating them and scorching them with hot iron paddles in the traditional ways. The doorbell rings and it is a man made of sugar, lint, dead revolutionaries. With a guilty whine, I lean back onto my haunches and rock back and forth, slowly, smelling the air, eating sand and bits of ants. Ants can't be made into effective paste without extensive previous training. Teeth gnashing, a peasant child tries to scream into a can of blue, just blue, and I shiver; I know when he finishes it'll be yellow, AGAIN.
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