As the salamander was strolling through
the hot coals beside the wall, he noted it
was made of brick.  Going around the
edge of the wall, he realized that
salamanders do not fly, yet soon he was

coasting through the air, high above the
place where the birds were flying.  It was
through the clouds.

The amphibious pile of rags, he agreed,
belonged as a stack of books leaned on
shelves against the bricks.  The birds were
hoping feathers would protect the words
from the rain.  The salamander continued
his agreement; the virtual world of the
pages was another place he could breathe
in a medium not intended for general use.