The Dryness Of Things

The desert planet is filled with bureaucrats. They reside in stacks of little square houses in the desert with their forms. The forms must be completed. You won't get away with it. With what? I can't think what. There is no imagination here.

Even when it turns cold and rainy it is still a desert. I am like a sponge that has dried up in the desert sun. Bureaucrats do not approve of sponging. Or imagination.

They sweat tiny pixels as they attempt to squash me into the shape of a cube, but they can't because I have dried into the shape of a surprised starfish.

I'm going to call the wet madness in.




.