“Sing, gypsies, sing of your lies,” the mostly mute Simpleton sings from nowhere, the fog lifting to show the black trees that mark the places of their dismembered bodies. There are a lot more trees than people…than what I remember. Only twenty come to mind, but there are at least sixty, maybe more, trees. For fuck’s sake, how many were there? A chorus of phantom singers jump in for the next line, as the wind howls harder, dragging their voices to us as the fog rolls back in. “Never trust a gypsy with no gypsy pride!”
