That painting with its winged penises, searching for macaroni, butter, and lumps of gum. "They've come around, they've been around all night. They're here thinking of doing it over and over again, just like its some funny repetitive dance along on the round sofa. Gah, I can hear 'em thinking about it. I don't need to see it. There's no value to it. We can't use the pictures in our heads like this. The damn music's too loud." Success is a line in here. It's not from somewhere else and it won't succeed without a market to happen to it. There's too much wax and too much wax as the song goes. What we need is to keep making these markets happen. They need to be everywhere just like candlesticks and crosses in the night. Giuseppe knows us, we're his reckless canaries in this poorly lit hole. He knows us as the cats that know the mysterious language of all the other birds in their holes. I've told him before that they'