|Judith Halberstam did say, "Desire Has A Terrifying Precision."|
The water's getting there. The truck is keeping it's lights trained on the embankment. A rusted TV aerial is twisted up in the scrub at the base of this dead tree. I keep pulling on the antenna but nothing keeps happening again. Stanley comes over and wipes at his brow in a methodical way that suggests that the action isn't entirely fruitless.
Honest urchin, Stanley raises up his hand. Tom I'll swear it out on a stack of Al's holy's. They're clocks, just like fucking clocks.
I grab my shovel and look the foul tangle over again.
What’s to keep these institutions from forming bigger more aggregated versions of themselves... They're sure as shit gonna buy into each others collections. It won’t be partnering then but it'll be something like it. More like they'll be lashing them collections together until they form one massively cohesive jobber of a snowball. Them umper-kunsts will redistribute all that history however they see fit then. They’ll toss gobs and gobs of civics and beauty at us pigeons down here. They’ll make up more and more children to tell all their stories too. Once you get 'em wound up, He says finally. There ain't no stopping them. Not until the history just runs right out. The pile of sand was washing out again and the coarse bags kept floating off.
I don't know Stan. If this goes the whole fucking ditch is washing out.
It's your say Tom.
How much juice is left in that Truck...
Maybe an hour.
He's the king of the kings of all of the things... That his father has laid before ya... He's set his table with dishes radishes and porridge... I'm working at Planet Jesus... I'm eating fried cheeses... I'm washing some dishes and wishing I was kissing... All of the girls I'm missing...