giants: we sent a spokesperson climbing to the top of a waving fibril in his shell like ear, to shout demands.  we are hijacking you, giant.  for the past three years we have been drilling a very small hole in your skull (tools from cartilage shards, nose expedition) to your spongy soft brain, and we have barrels of poison made from skunk sweat and toad bile, nightmares the rest of your life, and giants live five thousand years.  he didn’t know if we were bluffing, but we skated on his eyeball, stabbing it with ski-poles of split ends, made campfires under his fingernails, that sort of thing, until he was convinced.  he must have hated us, his invisible tormentors, never sure, even, if we were really there, or hallucinations of some fantastic hidden impulse.  running in zebra shadows of hair, laying on translucent skin above a vein, feeling the blue coursing ba-dum lift under your shoulders.  we loved him, he was home.  But still, our instructions to him were:  climb down one of those bean-stalk bridges, where that slightly-smaller giant we saw came from, and if we keep descending, through cloud layers, successively smaller jacks, levels of diminishing scale, we will find, finally, people the size of us.