He looked like a deflated wet leather balloon with his shirt off. His legs running through sprinklers, his arms a sheen and a slickness. Laying on the floor with its patchwork, blunt & anonymous as he dove into 6 feet, deep. The ways in which it effected his life were multiple and varied and will be gone into, we assure you, at some length, in the days to come, which may or may not be today, so in the meantime, please look up, there is something in the sky. He spun the dial: there were at least seventeen pointed outcomes from these roll-out-of-bed weather patterns. In the summer his daddy always sold unlicensed franks out behind the ballpark. Bruce Willis once cooked noodles in my kitchen, he thought. If, he asked himself, if I could manage to somehow piggyback off his success - If only I had a spyglass - then I'd know I was allergic to kittens when I was a wee lad, or, should I say, allergic to the mother's claws. But he longed for warm sake, not a box of Kaboom with a hidden gun inside of it.
     In the yard his yard was growing grass unrhytmically, but virtue still rhymed with hurt you and it is all a matter of belonging to something bigger than biography, and this was the moment when he looked up. He felt it was a shame he couldn't show her the revolver he kept in the empty tissue box. The gun was long and the gun was hard and the gun was cool to the touch until it lit up in a blaze of fire like some sort of eagle that was also on fire, and screaming through the air, until it didn't scream anymore, and no one knows what happened after that because they were all asleep. Flight! he thought. Flight is a violin, its violent arc, its trembling urge; it is making a cloud burst, feeling sun when everything's snow, a left behind leaf, tangerine and wet. Fight!; composing in the body a malleable rage, a tactile fuming; something he could get behind. A dozen dragons sang in his brain. Neon bouncing off of Neon bouncing off of Neon bouncing off into nothing.
     Any bird departing the yard in a north-north-westerly direction could by chance alight on the window-ledge of room 62A of the Florencio Motel, where a recently arrived woman is living out of a suitcase and several single-serving cereal boxes. Ungraciously coherent, she would press at the sharp edge of her hangnail with the tip of her burnt tongue when the woman used modern acronyms aloud, and in small company. She would pretend, too, that she was a duck and huddle around the station with her lips pushed forward.
     In the next room, a young Modigliani man with rings around his eyes the color of charcoal against his petal-pale skin carefully lined the chemical snow into perfectly even rows on his grandmother's silver hand mirror. Debonair of a sudden, he attracted a crowd of fifteen year old girls wearing new cleavage and dime store perfumes. It was damp, dogs were around; the rain fell from the sky onto the dogs and from the dogs onto the ground and the ground grew damp. Everyone was coming over for Christmas. Now was not the time to be caught with undies around ankles, especially not with the old lady's tawdry clown faced make up beaming down. Wow.
     Could a collection of mental states, their time-slices ordered chronologically, actually compose the aspectual shape of consciousness? he wondered aloud to no one in particular, then quickly added, Rubbish. <...send a sentence...>





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