The kindling would get things started, but

The kindling would get things started, but they hadn't had time before the sun set to get any real firewood. Each of them knew that when the light went out, it was over. It would

only take an hour before the "sand people" surrounded the camp and finished the job they had started. There's something about a ticking clock that makes people confess their

ambivalence about working. Baseball is not the national pastime, it's clock watching. But little did these sandy creatures know, the clocks had been staring back at them since

the someone started using the clocks as masks. They cut holes out of the face and walked around at the party. Cheap bastards, those clocks were not intended to be a costume, they

chastised the clock-wearing fools in my usual fashion, by spraying them with canned cheese. This only made them take even greater risks. Some began wearing grandfather clocks on

harnesses. Time is a cruel mistress, they say, and too many were submitting to her terrible domination. "Free yourselves," I said through my actions. Enraged, they

bound themselves further in their petty obligations and assigned gender roles, and fought back by trying to have me thrown into one of their Institutions. I fought back with

a fury of kicks and flails. I might have bit someone too, but I can't really remember. But alas, they overpowered me and dragged me to the Institution. There I could only sit and

stand - I now believe they had injected me with a truth serum which meant I could not lie.