As in the first two books, half the stories have a scene where these brothers nail one or the other to a telephone pole. Besides the repetition of words that i talked about before, there's repetition of clusters of words—wordings & sentences. There's «the look that hurts the eyes of the one looking». There's the «back of the backyard». And beyond just the word clusters, it's the image objects that these clustering of words form that stick into the gray matter of your brain, etched there through the ritual repetition of these words. There's the moon that shatters into a billion pieces. There's the boy with no tongue, Boy, who has a hole where his tongue should be. There's the girl the brothers make of mud, Girl, spelled with twenty thousand l's. And after the requisite warning that it might sting, there's the lining up of the rusty nail. These sayings are like mantras, word strings that get wrapped up into a giant ball of yarn that keeps picking up momentum with each iteration, rolling rhythmically like music, like a rolling stone, gathering no moss, like a canonical fugue, like one of those carbon-copy spinning drums. Each time the muddy juggernaut spins in your head you might see the same words wrapped to the outside, to the page, but if you look again, deep into the lumbering drum, if you relax your eyes, like looking into one of those dream machines, you discover that it picks up more with each spin cycle, ever-gathering carbon-based lint & debris, stringy mutations, rearranged wordings, that are reborn, regenerating new code that arises & sticks & stays true to the muddy core of this rivering machine.