Leroy Neiman Elephant Nocturne

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it was going to flower . . .
Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or C.M.O.T. as he liked to be called, sat up in bed and stared at the darkness.
In his head a city was on fire.
He fumbled hurriedly beside his bed for the matches, managed to light the candle, and eventually located a pen.
There was no paper. He specifically told everyone there ought to be some paper by his bed, in case he woke up with an idea. Holy Wood was written this was the one they’d point to and say: That was the Moving Picture to End all Moving Pictures!
Trolls! Battles! Romance! People with thin moustaches! Soldiers of fortune! And one woman’s fight to keep the - Dibbler hesitated - something-or-other she loves, we’ll think about this lThat’s when you got the best ideas, when you were asleep. At least there was a pen and ink . . . Images sleeted past his eyes. Catch them now, or let them go forever . . . He snatched up the pen and started to scribble on the bedsheets. A Man and A Woman Aflame With Passione in A Citie Riven by Sivil War! The pen scritched and spluttered its way across the coarse linen. Yes! Yes! This was it! He’d show ‘em, with their silly plaster pyramids and penny-and-dime palaces. This was the one they’d have to look up to! When the history of ater, in a world gone mad!