crate

All that you can think of--is false and we bury the past, obviously to make it up later. The extent to which it matters is unknown. How it appears before us, maudlin tight-lipped! This is the fetish of fantasy in the Alexandria Quartet--not stealing memories from each other, the characters live in the same very philosophical space, where sin is as fluid as virtue, because everything wafts around by fantasy and erudition. Never unicorns or wizards, but succubi and doctors.

The only way I could know that I had read these books thoroughly enough was to write them myself, a few scenes and ideas of their implications, simply me removed from the text by a few days, and let us hope, after a few drinks. So that I might reveal more than I would otherwise; that I might let loose, why else? Though I am not drinking in the day. Despite the funny little secret that that entails--others haven't a clue!--as in the recent French movie (my girlfriend saw it not me) some sort of freedom ought to be achieved that carries a slight guilt. Just to know that what you are about is wrong somewhere--this adds responsibility to an otherwise drifting life...set in motion by the energy of crime, in Sade's sense of nature progressing, life advancing, only by infractions of what seems right. We needn't libertinage if there is nothing against it. Turn us outward in the wind with no strings and life fades directly, faces contort into smudges, as of too many every which way until at last, a blur. A digital image splintering into puff.

Fire and disease, rage, spin-offs. Carelessness. Obeying the impulse that permits no fissure--go there. Try not to be trite. Jumping around, then. The end of a neck, an extension of terms, the material of a tent draped yet tapered from a set of spheres, white letters on a pair.