Hip-trop, trip-pop they spread out along the now-tawny grass. No ocher did they produce – though some suspect it – crawling up hills along the inclement plain they stood heavy in the urban soil. Rivals and mates of is, they assembled where what comes. Tiny, intimate of each element, they let not the minutest of particles escape and they were enormous, no collection of existence escaping. They rode along the sliver of gold that crawls through rock and terra beneath the surface of the plain; they made electricity that guides thoughts which produce psyches of erect beings walking atop prodigious hills with flocks of wool-producing bleeters. They rode in iron trains along dark mountainous paths in masses and within bunches of anything. They have no number and cannot be taken as one, fraction or many – though one counts their species of nothing. They marched and did not move, made glory and produced earth by simple acts and impossible combinations. When talking they produced descriptive sounds that gave presence to the light of things, but they themselves cannot be described. Just so, they cannot walk or run, and so they did not crawl, did not die, and they live in no way forever, having no life ever-undying.