What was all that about? Every word just wanted to stay out of the pool for a while, they stood around looking grim into the water. A bloody blue cement floor with a drain! It's not dead center? Look at it, as I am with my hair too flopping-wet, did you bring...
that book of metaphysics? I resort to it when it seems my friend the consul has grown thin on waiting his turn for the writing, staring at the pen.
does the theory of evolution sit on trampoline, thinking, where's my article? Where's the little one-letter word that helped bring me here? Hollow under that pale of black hair--a ghost in the machine, however! Ever an intelligence and cankering.
A new model for criticism? Speaking of characters, Durrell's or Lowry's, may occur: primitive model of art is at stake, that it is a random process that makes salutary connections--while not talking to its mother-ego about what's outside for now, the limited material beyond the text--the matter not reigned in by Derrida, for instance. We need to send these people a post card asking about Jesus, and why he was regaled in the process of their presiding over a wandering 5-year-old during a shotgun wedding.
That works best if no one knows what it's really about, and I cannot take any further prevaricating. You want to know! You! All about what this is about.
Well I could tell you, but then I'd--
Enough.
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