Publisher's Synopsis
The Forest grows brighter and greener in the gaslight, as it sinks into chaos and bloodshed. Trust what Journo Bear shows you only his special light touches. With just a dash more of brainsloshing and dismembering the past, the chanceselling bodies make haste to their well-guarded and walled-off ivory towers. There's a billion sheep arriving at the floodgates of the dried up mainstream and they have the right to come in. Citizen wild animals, who are returning, must use the security gate, release their personal information and promise to never use naughty language while agreeing, under threat, to have instruments inserted into their flesh for the sake of eliminating variables. The increasing amount of threats and violence is a sure sign, the Forest is becoming more peaceful. Driving the populace hard from her safe space upon an ivory tower, Celeste ensures no one questions her motives. For she is pure and her motive is to care for one and all, as long as they are inside the borders of her democratic Forest. Anyone outside the borders are not the chanceselling bodies' problem. Standing alongside the riverbanks are Celeste's children crying tears for every one of the lost little sheep. With tears in their eyes, the youth cannot see any wolves or rams in the flock that are white as wool and without sin. Glistening and shimmering in tears and gaslights, the flock peacefully rampages, taking everything that rightfully belongs to them, for they are victims, every last one of them, the same. Genelizin' is wrong, but all the sheep are the same to the children-the passive aggressive flanks of the millenaryan falcon ranks. In a Forest of equali-tay the future voters are so equal, they only know how to see collective sameness. A tree is a rock. A sheep is a lamb. A sheep is a sheep, even if it has massive horns and strong hind legs. Please don't tell them any different, or you'll make them cry. A sheep with long sharp teeth and six legs are also just sheep. Having tears, sawdust, wool, dirt and other bits of matter jammed into one's eyeballs gives them extra special sight. The youth see so well, they are nearly blind. For sight is another word that has gone obsolete. Let them in. Let them all in. Without the sheep, the future of the Forest will not exist. The river might be empty of fresh water but the tears of the children let flow a raging river of justice Journo Bear is all too happy to report on. The mainstream is never dry as long as Journo Bear is there to use stock pictographs and tell everyone it's rainy season. With every word in their language becoming fluid, who is anyone to say the sky is not the ground? Tears are not rain? Look. Look, there is Utopia, we can see it through the waterfall of teary-tears we cry. We ain't brainsloshed, for hateislove. The Micro-Ministry has opened a Wild Thought Sanctuary for those wild animals who do not bow down like good voters to the Qings and Kueens of their democracy.
