affame_le_geant_so_he_can_go fyn gula saumboo's concern was truely warranted. his question about finding the real baeroun opposed to the imposters revealed a serious dilemma for the already paranoid puppertwinkle. yet, he shook off the doubt as if it was rainwater. he refused to let it cast a shadow on boffden's put-forth impending agenda. there was already enough to worry about with the immediate consideration of locomotion. this initial problem presented itself like a nagging toothache. "how will i get the wooden cart back upon the bianca strada as a legitimate mode of transportation?" he asked himself, and his head dropped with an unavoidable sense of overwhelming insuffiency. it was like trying to shoot an apple off your own head with a bow and arrow. it was a job he must have help with. the first thing he did was run into the wooden cart. he appeared a few moments later with a can of spray paint. since the canister was almost as big as he was, there was time consuming difficulty involved, yet it was something he had to do. a christening. a rite of passage. a perpetual message of motivation and encouragement. when he was done, this is what it read in huge letters across both sides of the cart: YOU ARE THE QUESTION. THE WORLD IS THE ANSWER. after he cleaned the white paint from his fur, the little dog announced his intentions to saumboo...he was going to search the bianca strada for someone who could help him get the cart rolling westward. saumboo urged him to pack food. he could be gone a long time. perhaps you are wondering how frau werzenwozen and saumboo will make it without the little dog's care. the pregnant german lady breathes and eats love. and saumboo drinks his own tears. as for food, the birds promised to bring him words to eat. to ease puppertwinkle's mind, a raven, blacker than the starless night fog, came over when saumboo cawed. "recite a poem for us, oolong, that this fretful dog may know i will be cared for in his absence." and so the raven settled its wings, perching on a bare oak branch three feet above them. he was an impressive bird with a voice to match. he sounded a dead ringer for james earl jones. "it's not stupid to write a poem when you have someone to write it to." he said, and begun with a flourish. "to a cat: i miss you to a tree: your arms your breath your green they make my blood scream to you: hmm to a fish: i would give some plants to a plant: you clean my air and whisper when i'm not there and luckily i don't care to you: it's not fair to water: you're always running wait and let me catch up to you: it's only true to you: it's only pure to you it's only because you are love and to you i am love too." puppertwinkle clapped his paws. he felt relieved that he could go knowing everyone would be safe and taken care of. "but who will care for me?" he asked himself. 021112 what's it to you? who go blather from