In some country, that may as well have existed on the moon, the government –of the moon people—blanket the cities with leaflets. This really happened. In Russia I think. I envision an old WWII bomber filled with staunch faced goons throwing armfuls of pink and white paper out of the belly of the flying beast. Farmers below looking up athe fluttering mess, this floating whispering montage of fluttering bodies. Perhaps they seek out those who can read to decipher the strange words.
But this reality that I imagine is far away. This happened. One book of stories, of history, tells me. But sitting here, now, I have no connection to the small town farmer, just as you have no connection to me, Not really. I am not a real thing, I am not an actual person. I am some figment, and assigned profile within your mind to give a body to the voice over with which you read. You cannot make me real.
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