AAAAAAAAAAAA

The silent A screams across the page. He sets up columns of jagged teeth. He waves them menacingly at the sky:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

And all that is heard is the sound of the wind, whistling between them. The A quivers, shakes with rage. He will rend the very fabric of the air! Upon his spikes the falling birds will be impaled!

The As are a mountain range. The snow settles upon them. They are background, scenery. Silent, majestic, fixed in place:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Somebody climbs them and claims them for his country. The As are familiar from postcards. Place your cheek upon one: It is cool and hard. You can feel its substance extending below you for miles, its roots ending somewhere deep in the Earth, dangling playfully into her molten heart.

The A is far far away from you. It knows you not. Sunk deep into some directionless dream, it revolves.

The As are being worn away. The wind and the snow are eating away at them, smoothing them out. It’s a kind of relief, being worn down in this way. We look forward to the time when this place will be flat again, when nothing but fine sand blowing around will disturb the total emptiness.