Law and literature. Legal literature. Law as literature. No, and no. Only law in literature--because reading literature as literature is not averse to law...

Is the gulf of oil to be the next gold rush? Once the gulf itself is sealed and turned into an oil reserve, really only a few letters off from reservoir...

We'll need a large roof. Unless we build a maze of siphons, spin it back into the zone---a void...enter at your risk. The most dangerous place to just light upon, lift the lid, swim: 't will suck you in. The depths, the miles of oily depths, the West's last drop, its full deck of what it's got that it must steal from others once it's gone. The bank of America, enormous. From the moon you'd need a scope to see. "The oil is likely to stretch into the fall. The cap will trap only so much of the oil, and relief wells being drilled won't be completed until August." And it will be an ocean we'll just scoop from, heat our homes with, live in common competition for---the vastness being drained.

Let's hook it up to vending machines at the furthest points, provide tap sources for mules and such. They're just as stubborn as they ought to be. Convenience stores will improve as you push on south. Shit just up and starts looking like gold.

Until at last. Like the fish throwers of Seattle, gas fillers juggle toddlers and are so friendly you'd entrust them with your reputation, they are the swipers of cards and spinners of petrol pumps---"gas" having gone out with the idea that it comes from underground. For we have a sea of it and have erected a see as well. Religious oil economy, dutiful post-oceanic following. (The Mexican government will have to love it as well. Many opportunities for a city made with the well of life flanking and encouraging it---join us!!)

In short, how I could use this, personally in my fictive little realm of Word documents:

Consequences for America's sodden lower extremity in its entirety. Stretching as north as Alterity along a nauseating life-line, a channel, and with it, putrid hope. In this town we make...all sorts of stuff for well-oiled machines; many things made with or by or for Oil, these are the parts required. We sort and grind, pack and send, parts--lots and lots of parts. To the rest of the country.

We function a bit like ants. We are well paid and watch after a major operation, each of us. Our pubs are great for brawls. Our hills inspire poets, isolate intellectuals. Great four-wheeling. Tough tracking, building forts accessible only by fat four-wheelers.

You haven't thought much about the fact of there even being four-wheelers in the world---those tear-uppity crawlers with glutinous nobs around the wheels, gummy chompers set into spinning rubber puffs.

Yes, disgusting in this context.

But don't knock it without having first tried it, obviously...

Eyes just closed on me. Dry.
Anyway in the town of Alterity--never mind.