Midfield's supposed to be blind and everything. "You were such an objective kid," he was a geyser, ears blue like nickels from Turkey. I was wrapped in old socks and mud raised from the plough - nothing, then bleeding. "I don't know rockets, Midfield. I lost a headband there...and my cuticles." He was high on his sweat, right in front of me. Forward bent too late, like scowling barbecues. "I don't need your bikinis and cut-offs in Madrid, Farmer. I want that anecdotal pause, if it's in you." I had a private throat - zipped like a sleeping bag - but any normal flood would have fell like cantaloupes, high and then really low. Before my eyes, the pages extinguished. Midfield had a Big Bang for the Iliad. "No dice."
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