The mole-men covered themselves with impossible tattoos. Tattoos of architecture in full 3D that protruded from their skin & made their clothes fit strangely, tattoos of ideas that covered their faces & hands--not ideas in any sort of written or abstracted form, but raw ideas, wet & white like the flesh of a just-opened coconut. They covered themselves with tattoos of the feeling of standing under waterfalls & the smell of their lover's pajamas, still warm from sleep, in a pile on the floor while said lover showers the morning after the best night of doing nothing, just nothing. The dirt-collector's daughter, a mole-man of great vision & intelligence, spent her days following the main tunnels & blowing on others through straws. She was complimented often on how warm her breath was, how lovely it was of her to share with them some air that still remembered the feel of her lung-insides. Words like these were always rewarded with a smile & an elaborate gesture that involved her knees, a gesture that meant you are a mole-man of great beauty & I love the impossibility of your wonderful tattoos.