In the kingdom of forced metaphors there are a few rules, depending on who is guarding the gates. Communication only through lemon juice and flames, new art only scrimshaw or made from wood found on wind-scoured beaches. Regular removal of the head that wears the crown. The usual things.
In Greek there is a phrase, "istories me arkoudes", that literally means "stories with bears" but translates more closely to the sort of narrative that is so wild it almost can't possibly be true. Those bears, though, they're everywhere, courting mayhem and raiding the honey pot. They're the ones behind all of this everything that can't be true and yet somehow is. Bears under the ice in Antarctica, going all lumpy and making everyone re-think how glaciology works, bears sunburning hands and hearts with a variety of different lamps. Bears everywhere.
Yesterday I sat at a table with a tiny two-and-a-half year old girl (although she tried to convince us that she was five) and a cup full of strawberries, much too adorable to possibly be real.