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Am I what you'd call "loath"? A year goes by, doppler effect, smushed quarters, as if Dali had signed every page in a diary instead of a ream of print-sized paper. Is that the old New York Life building pretending to be the little red lighthouse? The little red white house and the great gay bridge, but I hear everything as about Roy Cohn. Materiality of language, but as a gossip column. Cartoons of the rescue of civilization, but... my mind trailed off, trained out. Punch in the quarters and the washer kicks in. I am going to chip out now. When I look into the prose I see a flat surface though I know riding on it will toss me about. The villain has a schtick you build art around. Good, on the other hand, is simple and unanalyzable. Vote now or forever hold your Pablo Escobar. Why is connect-the-dots acceptable as a metaphor for research when find-the-words is not? Get filled, gefilte fish, flubber is my onion bagel -- I dream in food. Unconsciousness came up through me and filled the room. I knocked over my beer as I fell asleep -- woke up seconds later, ass soaking. Is it mild? The prose divertimento, the shallow end of the chaconne. I was able in this style to fade into doing something. A germ goes by. Quit kibitzing!