Nigh horizontal plumbing and obtuse gravity brew stagnant soup between my ellipsoidal hovel and other ellipsoidal hovels Why, I am chef of a realm! A chef who harvests undulating fronds sprung from arcked footpaths caked with reconstituted slime. Steam and brume waft like typewritten smoke between ellipsoidal hovels. Delight for one is infection for an other! Cushions await ends of forgotten epochs or days, stony like loves left in cavernous larders. Pneumatic drills pound dreams or it may be residual fumes. Yet - in one ellipsoidal hovel - a mote in the bestial, terrestrial web - dripping figures, bent obtuse like conduits, slave to fashion a drain.