Slip off the edge of the world and into my arms.
Do you see the fortune teller seated at the high-top table in the back of the bar? The bar built out of the skeleton of a disreputable, old motorcycle factory that was known to some as “Betty’s” after dark?
The fortune teller, the bar, the factory, even me. All our roots sunk deep into the loam and shale of a smallish college town nobody’s heard of . . . until they suddenly do, until I want them to, until they can no longer ignore the dreams of tunnels and sanctuary . . .
Yeah. You.
Make your travel arrangements.
In the meantime, let me tell you a joke.
A human walks into a bar after learning of the treasure waiting beneath it. They ask the bartender for “liquid nerve”—the code that’s supposed to get them underground. The bartender hands them a palm-sized bottle of fizzy green liquid and says, “The first one is on the—”
Hold on, you need to focus on getting a good seat on this bus. Express to the edge of the world calls for a view out the window.
What was I saying? Never mind. Watch this.
