Monthly comes the farmer, his grain to sell, his friends to meet. Bales and bushels of wheat and any vegtables he might have grown. His red face full of smiles under the sun, his missing teeth a long time joke among friends. The dirt road which runs through his small town is yellow all day long, and he remembers when he was a kid, streaking the dust with his stick, no shoes no shirt. And the first time he fell in love. And the evening dances in summer, under the moon and the stars; the heavens pushing the limits of the horizion, he would sit on some rickety old chair and lose his soul amidst the stars, until his boyish cheeks were streaked with tears. And how he'd wrap himself in his mother's apron, or work all day with his father. And he'd wander. Out, out, out over the green pastures, until he found something new. And wandering again home he'd trudge along that good ol' road. Just past this self same road, out into the distance of the unclaimed land, lay tiny wild flower blossoms reaching after the sun. And nothing really ever changes these rich landscapes of meager but haunting life.
But beneath the soil dwells an angry monster, terrible to describe. His finger nails are contaminated lead pipes, cut lengthwise, and sharpened from digging in the bedrock. His skin is the color and consistency of concrete, and he wears the cap of a German academian, now long ago ruined. His legs are hairy and thick and his stomach is always empty. He would eat, but every living thing that he touches turnes slowly into cold, beautiful, marble statue, so he can never manage more than a few bites. His eyes are blue and completely normal, and he has long since stopped pitying himself. Underground, he has over the decades carved out a small gallery, which no human eyes -- save his own -- will ever see. There he displays the half eated corpses of worms and dogs -- they somehow produce their own faint light, so the viewing is rather pleasant; one may contemplate all the intricacies. In the remotest corner, a virgin, perfect in form, his eyes linger on her body, he would still kiss her if he had lips, but his toothless mouth is dry. Instead he writes bad poetry to her in the mud; and waits for the water to wash these away. Beauty, he calls her, my dear wife, he says.