fig.23) a passing thought Here's what my crane of the march thinks of it when there is shade enough for thinking. It thinks that, the bench of my boat stays wet while my ass sits steadfast in the sand twitching and indifferent to it's breakfast of salt and knob knees. Here is what I shall feel today, I shall feel like, young. I shall feel like, must. I shall feel like, short pants, an old clock and a sharp eyed rebuke from a small and box like stage. Today I shall feel like a Chiclet that's been rolled in snot, that's been deep fried and chewed up by a small table saw. I'm tired today and my chest hurts. It's cold in my room and my nose is runny. Everything smells terrible everywhere. My olfactory range is limited to astringent and sour things or florid musk's. It's like being surrounded by old milk and Chanel number hell. I'm back at work which means I'm unhappy and angry just walking through the side door. I feel like I'm going to gro