1. Logistics

There is a derelict WWII airport hidden in the woods on the edge of town. Thirty-nine planes are buried there. One of their aluminum stomachs holds a key from an enigma code machine. The lone dirt runway terminates in a clump of eighty-foot sugar maples. 773 tiny cargo planes depart the airport every day.

2. Communication

On Wednesday I catch a virus. It’s an awful and horrendous experience. On Tuesday I catch a second virus, and my cats and I enjoy a wonderful and resplendent day. During this time, we read many edifying articles on Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia that anyone can edit. According to the article titled, “Germ Theory of Disease,” viruses don’t speak to other viruses. They are quite rude in this manner. My cats and I are pleased. For the remainder of the chilly day, we lounge on our forty-three piece sectional in the center of the nineteenth-floor living room and eat tiny bricks of pan-seared beef out of our hand-hammered wok.

3. Quadratics

There are fourteen kidney shaped tables in the basement of the local library. The tables are brand new and placed into an arrangement resembling an acute scalene triangle. In the center of the asymmetrical triangle, a JBL powered speaker blasts the 1996 double album, Rancid Constellations Despair, by the upstate New York post-hardcore band, Pragmatics. My wife and I run around the tables in our moisture-wicking workout clothes for the entire 177-minute runtime of the masterful, twenty-nine-track album. Droplets of liquid wax fall from the soft and melting ceiling and splash upon our bare shoulders and exposed stomachs. This is nothing new. We exercise here every day. Once finished, we lay in the nude atop the northmost table of the triangle and savor the sear of the burning wax as it mummifies our throbbing genitals. It takes seventeen hours and thirty-one minutes for the wax to encase the total surface area of our pelvi. Our bodies are the most beautiful and exemplary in town. No one in the state of New Jersey knows how to enter this room.