Fragments and Wholes

"Cinematic mayhem," said the Red to the Green.

"All in a day’s chaos," the Green chuckled.

They laughed that common laugh of an inside joke. One that rang alien and hollow around the cluttered crevice, in one ear and out the other of every other soul. The Blues and Browns and Yellows had nothing to say. They simply wound their serpentine limbs around each other’s necks and carried on.

"I should get on with it, I suppose," said the Green to the Red.

"Ah, and I know I should too," the Red agreed.

And so they rubbed their prickly palms together to summon an ounce of charge. Sharp strands, dendritic spines, burrowed out from beneath their fingernails, shooting little white darts along a weather-beaten path. Microscopic flecks of lightning, bringing tears to an eye, animation to a tongue. The effect they had was this:

'A plethora of sound is as a plethora of none,
Emptiness is as full as fullness is empty.'

The Red and the Green rolled their eyes and laughed once more.