A gallery of lists appointed to the man's mind, a spoon—tracing a gaggle of the letter S—thought, as it felt the atoms never touching throughout the day, would be the only thing to defeat the book of emoji-clad pages on the desk of the balding editor. The hand that held the spoon, now an appendage itself, used the spoon as a weapon against the eyes of the hand, the eyes on the head, the head of the man.

The spoon longed to be drawing on the stomach of the woman again, Ss or otherwise. She was lying on the ground and the editor was gone or, so to speak, not present.

In the shape of an S all parties agreed one might stumble on a dot, a bump, a bullet point and stop. And then a straight line would appear. Then another bullet and another line and so on. And on these lines would be a different list. The lists would only own their line and all items would be separated by a semicolon. A uniform list of lists, of words, each one itself another kind of list.

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