Ah, Paradise For I, with all my dumb luck, had been given a life now of such wonderment . . . By Kendric W. Taylor
I live in a distant land so remote even Indiana Jones couldn’t find it, so far off the grid, we have no idea what a grid even is, so tucked away in amongst the vast tundra, it makes the lost city of Atlantis as prominent as the Eiffel Tower. I live in a village so poor the Czar’s Tax Collector, on his last visit, gave us money; so potholed and cratered, the moon looks like provolone instead of Swiss; so cold and miserable, the reindeer moved to Lapland for the milder climate. Though it’s named Paradise, it’s really only a few rickety-rackety wooden shacks with sod roofs, peep holes in the linoleum passing for windows, and yak hides for doors, its few pathways so empty of pedestrians, they make the Martian canals seem like freeways. No one here knows exactly where this is, as no one has been anywhere else to find out where they came from. We think the Capitol City is out there where the sun does shine; but that’s it. One thing we’re sure of, if you did leave, managed to get beyond the ice fields, through the great forest, even 40
