Sheila was having a better than average day. She'd felt well enough to locate Tramps leash and take him for a walk.
As she stood on the side of the field, one among the long evening shadows, everything stationary was stationary and pretty much where the universe had put it. She could not shake the feeling, however, that without Substance D, she was drinking the pastoral scene out of a stale paper cup.

This was where the strange words spoken by madmen in faraway places were kept. They were stored in dusty archives of tandeta, whispered into matchboxes and placed in meticulously labeled wooden drawers. Lost words with and without meaning.