Not again, she muttered. She thought she had finally figured out which side her bread was buttered on, but then the eggs grew legs and the orange juice squeezed itself back into its peeling and the bacon took flight. It was back to the drawing board, trying to wrangle absurdity into a sandwich for lunch. Or was it dinner? She could never remember, especially after her doctor had recommended forgetting three impossible things before supper to clear out her mind for the glory of the coming of the boredom. So she kept losing track, watching the thoughts of trains pull in and out of her station with wild abandon, barely stopping to take on passengers in barter for coal and steam. Were they model trains, or was she the scale simulation, the very modicum of a lostmodern English ladies and gentleman? Then she remembered her poem and looked out the window and there they were again, flying pigs all over the sky. That's more like it, she muttered.
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