Most German fairy tales end with the sentence “Not long afterwards, there was an outbreak of the plague,” and so the sudden death of a thousand fictional schoolchildren living in the Maxvorstadt proves imagination is a fact, fact with a spurious relationship to the truth. Hey Mr. Police Officer, if you’re so smart how come you’re only doing your job? Hey Mr. President, if you’re so smart how come you’re only doing your job? Hey Mr. Prime Minister, hey Mr. PayPal, if you’re so smart how come—. Did you know that in Mexico you have to pay to go to high school? Dumb American kids like myself are f-u-c-k-i-n-g lazy. Yesterday I studied the sky for hours, coming away with the realization that I can do nothing I am not against the emotional smear campaign otherwise known as life. I’m too smart. Horizon, cloud, the sky was crowded yesterday. I will mention the dead birds. I will mention the heavy wind. Will mention that what the wind makes out of the air is a bird’s burden, wings ceaselessly swimming sky. “Oh a stately pleasure-dome decree/ Where Alph, the sacred river, ran/ Through caverns measureless to man/ Down to a sunless sea.” Flying is for the birds. Where eagles dare. I ain’t no god-damned son of a bitch. Death exists at the border of fact and imagination and some fatal acceptance seals it. Hey Mr. Policeman, if you’re so smart—. And so ends the tale of little boy Gunther and Stalvirt, the magical horse that saved all of Munich. Not long afterwards, there was an outbreak of the plague.