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There is something in a boot that loves to stomp.

There is something in a boot’s nature that calls for it. That exerts a subtle, cumulative pressure upon the wearer.

If boots could wear boots, and those boots could wear the original boots —

If you’re a little confused by how that would work topologically, please remember Cheryl’s talent in folding —

Then they would fulfill one another in an endless stomping frenzy of orgiastic glee.

Even for a gigantic boot in space —

It is the same.

It longs to stomp the paper mountains down and turn the grape fields into wine. To crumble all the monuments and make all the towers flat. To crush the world into the shape of the stamp on the bottom side of it; and to make that stamp itself the shape of a perfect world for boots.

It is not science that fuels this, not really; rather, it is joy.

It is not mechanism that does this; rather, it is purpose.

Cheryl is wired into the boot and it is wired into she; it is flush with the dreams of her.

That there should be such a snake again —

Vidar’s Boot stomps itself.

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