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Everything I set down goes with a clatter that goes on longer than expected, and is like a small dam bursting, a blister of calm. My nerves have taken off and are living it up a few feet across the room by the stereo. My gut sulks on a pink cushion. A bidding war is beginning, and you and I are getting involved. The lyric self lives best at its wits' end, a ghost straining itself through masonry. You try to feel the lash, the searing beams, the tear gas. When they catch you they come down on you you know how. In the library I felt faint then went and had a shit. This is a real memory, but the next one won't be. Once -