Perhaps as you travel along the Franglais coast

near the Chunnel, you might find your way through

the wisping smog to the island of one Dr. Port-

manteau. Here, the tweens meld their common

pasts irregardless of the loss; it all comes out

in the wash. First, there is language. Then, a

world of new things to enjoy: sexploitation,

mathletics, ebonics. Guesstimate, if you will,

the lives and eras that fade together, dare to

assign them as less or more than the sum of their

parts. Alas, there is no room for self-awareness

on the island. We are frenemies, one and all,

arms locked against the gears of the modern

machine. Raise your voice in preservation

of the pure soundscape if you wish, but here

you must be gone by midnight. It is then that

the cyborgs ride, strong and fierce in forward

momentum, shadows among the tangelo groves.

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