Lay the dolls down and they'll turn into real life, cut the strings and they'll run about and go rowing, have a herd full of horses and see owls on their arches in the dark, there will be brown rocks and golden dust in the distance, the clouds will be bruised and hemorrhaging, some sort of glistening outer dark beyond the devouring gloom, lampshades of leaves and broken tree stumps with orange moss, some old storm methodically crawling over my pretend landscape like a strange monster, killing me, killing the dolls too.