affame_le_geant_his_life_saved fyn gula it turns out puppertwinkle was an amanuensis of his own soul because all the words he swallowed came forth with the water from his stomach. paw print letters forming the verse he dictated, documents from the messages he heard. this roll of paper that some say appeared like a cash register's receipt from a lengthy grocery order, albeit soaking wet, came out of his throat like a snake's tongue that just kept fucking coming. yet kemulyan legend says it was more like the canister of adding machine paper stored in the pick-up truck of a robin hill landscaper to capture thoughts in the autumn darkness. drop it on the ground by accident and the chicken scratched sentiments of a gardener/philosopher proceed across the asphalt like a red carpet for an arriving dignity from a parallel world. he walks on the sharpie-penned words, reading as he goes, stopping to write down the ones he wants to keep and add to his own form of expression. someone had rescued the little dog, pulling him from proina's drowning pool and was expertly performing cpr on him. the attendant stood by as water and words erupted from puppertwinkle in equal fits of gasping, coughing, choking, sputtering, and wretching. as he was coming to and regaining his consciousness, each tiny chest compression would yield breathy, mumbled phrases in spanish, remnants of the dissertation he just consumed. some examples of the first inhalations and exhalations of puppertwinkle's new life: "you can't recreate the times you never had." oblivion is dead. long live clarity." this_revolution_will_not_be_televised." "love giving. give love. love is giving." "share your bath water." "tattoo your soul." "fuck apathy." "there is a surprise everyday." "something wonderful is about to happen." "peach is good, but apricot even better." "don't miss the drama of the dawn." proina was long gone when puppertwinkle opened his googly eyes, blinking at the harsh light for it was high noon and the sun was busy helping plants make their own food and giving certain people skin cancer. he was acutely aware of the monumental event that just occured to him. memories of his recent struggle with the wicked god/monster were painful and he shuddered to think of her, it being the first object of his primordial thought. finding her absent came as a great relief and with that first concern put conveniently out of his way, his second pressing issue was to discover who had saved his life. having been revived and resuscitated upon his back, puppertwinkle scrambled to right himself, sensing an energy available even without the aid of a red bull drink. he was back on all fours and had a quick look around, surveying his immediate world with all the sparkling wonder of one who had just been given an undeserved second chance. to his right, he noticed with unexpected surprise, that package four from the box of treasure was opened and empty, its black and white polka-dotted wrapping paper violently ripped off and the lid a decent distance away as if its contents had propelled itself forward for some compelling, expedient reason. to his left was a rather large white cat. normally to puppertwinkle, the sight of a feline never troubled him. his small stature did not present himself as a threat to them and they usually greeted him as a pleasant distraction. a curiousity at first worthy of casual investigation that slowly turned to boredom. however, there was something very strange about this one. for all appearance sake, it looked real. the fur was authentic. the smell like juniper in the rain. yet, it seemed frozen, as if it ran on batteries instead of requiring oxygen and in the process of saving puppertwinkle's life they lost their charge. it is this thought, you see, that the little dog deduced from the evidence presented. because nothing else was around to pull him from drowning. saumboo and frau werzenwozen were asleep. it seems his life was saved by an anotromic pussycat. upon closer inspection, puppertwinkle discovered several peculiar facts about his hero. 021026 what's it to you? who go blather from