081413 #worm #roach Downstairs, the whispering stops, too completely. There are sirens outside. Jelse leaves a bloody handprint on the glass door. He's back on the street. The blood from the truck driver's open mouth drips off the crumpled hood of the garbage truck, onto Jelse's shoe. The firemen and the cops are arriving in droves. Jelse stands, a phoenix, arms outstretched, thermos dangling from one gloved hand. It's a dream. It's a dream. It's a dream. Flash, skip, flip, slip or waddle through the mud to a time, any time, make it twenty years removed from Krim and Ltiky's initial flushed flirtations. Need directions? Fold the map. The piece of paper I picked up in the cafe at dawn has at least sixty-four distinct sides. I don't know how to access all of them, but as I puzzle through the permutations, I see a plenitude of pathways through dimensions more numerous and fractal than your commonplace convenience store's three-dollar compendium of roads, highways, counties and campsites.