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This world is fragile. We have dropped it. We have the pieces but no glue. We can't glue it back together untill we figure out how to make the glue. There are places to go get the glue, but we went to their door, and they are locked inside and have sealed their doors with it. We knock with offers of doorknobs and locks, but we are silenced by the sound of their footsteps pacing circles telling us no. Since the cuckoo bird flew away from our clocks, and left with all the time in this place, we moronicly toss birdseed out waiting for a cat to come with burp ups of feathers and carrier messages. They might be glued to the cuckoo's leg, and we could study the glue. You can walk the streets of the ruins, but alas all you will find are the remains of floaties and training wheels scattered about.

The greenhouse is brown.

The greenhouse is grey.

The greenhouse is black.

construction in progress. choice of path coming soon. thanks.