stagnanTVowels

Homeless, that's the work of another class! "A bacchanalia with any of the thin yellow papers or the mint could be patient. There could be tears from everything that usually lays down between the tall machines where this sex won't be heard and it can't be confused for being as wet or uncomfortable as it really is." Crunchy with street salt, my name’s not so amazing as it could be. Hello it’s me sitting here in Sophies’ Busy Bee. I don’t have to look up, I can’t even try to. My eyes are being held by Kobo Abe’s novel, Box Man. As it goes along, I’m transcribing it, word for word into this ringed notebook from the bodega where I buy my beer. Many have written about this book’s appeal but I’m not essaying about any of the resounding metaphors of that Kobo’s teased from post war reality. I’m trying to consume this book as literally as I can. Not out of identification with the protagonist’s isolation, so much as it’s glorification in iconic home decorating sense. The l

People are very scared and they're not responding to any of this very well. My wife has pointed out that some of them will be returning to work, whether they want to or not. I think you’ve probably seen the large number of runners and the walkers, either with or without their dogs attached to them. They're all over the sidewalks in and around the city, making it hard to properly distance with so many people being unwilling or incapable of accepting the reality of this threat among those trying in vain to do so. The flowers won't stop, they'll keep growing over the dead racists too, you'll see. At the edge of the highways and in that small room behind the balconies where the light once played from it's hole. Our narratives should absorb our pain and loss, they're a reflection of our shared tragedy after all. They're the exposed purpose of our limitations within corners that have been constructed with something else, another riddle even? Our inadequacies m