What a fancy octopus! Fine steady arms carrying its thin-as-paper skin. Skin spread as butter from one arm to another. Shielding us beneath from the anger from above. The drainage from heaven has been open and my faithfull octopus, lending itself to me in a cannon fodder-ish way. Fate has it that I greet my friend – the silent ironfast octopus – when trouble is brewing in heaven, but when the smell of summer, the taste of spring and the clear skies of blue unfolds, I leave it. I leave my servant, my companion my friend. I have no need for him when I cannot use him. No need for a cannon-fodder-friend.

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