The cry came from the sky, torn through a tear by hollow swirls in the shapes of ram’s horns and yams and alabaster amalgamates attached to the whipped root of the roof in an earth, something kids wish of hugging with an open mouth for quantity, assuming the taste is one of a consistency similar to that of bread which had soaked in breast milk and egg shells for a week by a window to the storm, the color of the original tear matching with the bedsheets of the tortoise with filthy armor and claws, better known as the pornographer by the man who stereoscopically visualized men with blue balls suspended to the water of Port Lligat in The Harmony of the Spheres, clear skies, almost as if his dreams were that of Christ or, Uncle Sam, who actually was one of Teatro Museo Dali’s model’s grandfather’s young girlfriend’s (years back that was) brother’s best buddies who unfortunately was testing his kite during these rains, tripping on some fishing line and falling forwards onto a lobster trap in a way in which two, basically wooden daggers simultaneously brushed passed his cheeks as he landed on his soft head which was unprepared for its collision with a rock the size of a car battery which had once been left for dead in the driveway to the museum inside of which we have the naked woman to begin with who was distantly related to a figment of a dream stereoscopic so similar to the two twin beds which wore the torn sheets of the original tortoise who had trouble sleeping as he thought about what it would be like to swim outside, through this crying, from which the deepest puddles came and rippled.