fig.53.36) The mountains that I've held, at least they've known some. There are no roads in a world with wide walls and seamless thoughts. We are here, constructing evidence that we've been all along. "See the light that's inside of the exhibition, see where it's upside is really down inside of there," this is what Camera-Boy always says to me. So explain to me please, the nature of this good letter inside of its crisp envelop? Explain the door's sash or the uneven bricks under the garden window where boys gather and sing the hits. Aren't they also like the soft shirts that sprawl on the back of a kitchen chair? Or the coffee that turns into beer and then the beer which turns into a long night of talking in the basement behind the steps, one playing card at a time?" "No one can ever be as honest," I answer. Near the escarpment beside the old building with the leaning rails. Out where the rusty flashing is still sitting in a