“ There’s humor tucked away in the chalk of the white spots. People ask me how I get my eyelids to sink. It’s simple: skin, stroke a dolphin, sometimes set Armenia on fire. Diran knows exactly. Hash helps, hash is a walker. Not for him, he’s black, for him it’s weed. Marco called again. He really means to buy Lindos. And I think about Juan (his mother-in-law, the psychiatrist, who trained with Lacan, frustrated because there are no real customers in Naples), sure he checks out when he thi...nks about the Nazco lines. Mostly they’ve left to gather mushrooms, and I’m alone. I’m riding yesterday’s weed and even Diran’s typing. He’s in the tower. He’s got everything poured into his computer. But me, if I’m not physically chopping wood, I get lazy. My cornea is eaten by torches, and dwarves in togas come rolling out of geoglyphs. It hums, and if anyone has ever really thought how to build a house, it’s Juan. In Pittsburgh they also want me for a semester.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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