Running in the Nose

He blows his nose and out shoot little human people. As they catapult from his nostrils, he feels their tiny elbows and brittle knees bounce and tumble along his soft nasal corridors; his eyes water as they snag hairs and wake follicles. Little beings. They are lighter than bird bone and bundled in flea-barb armor. Their cries are nearly impossible to hear, like the dialogue of a dream post-waking. But somehow we hear them: “The tapewyrm of travesty is reborn in the world; the horn has been blown–to arms!”

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