Long Huo gets left out of pastoral literature because poetry considers his charges and environ a bit more, a ha, prosaic than hillside sheep. What this says about which poets have ever seen sheep up close is another topic, but in truth Long Huo’s chair herd does have a strange beauty, ambling and bumping before him down the halls of the convention center.

They also keep the berber nice and short.

But the point is that Long Huo’s lyre skills are both unknown and unmatched. He plays to soothe his flock; the elevators answer, chiming like crickets in the tracklit night.