On an hour and a half of sleep (me) and no sleep at all (derspatchel), we have won our way through accurately forecast blizzard and unexpectedly rearranged subway lines to Brooklyn, where I will be reading in a few hours at United Photo Industries with as many other authors as can make it out for the last night of Viktor Koen's Bestiary. Rob has been trying to diagnose us a route through transposed public transit (the F train running in place of the C, the G in place of the F) and it looks as though the answer is going to be: taxi. I forgot the camera and my actual winter hat. I'm pretty sure the aftereffects of the flu came with me. The snow started this afternoon as we were passing through saltmarsh country, a static-white flicker between the sepia-tone cattails and the silver ice smoothing the water and the wet postcard grey of the sky. I will read about Argos Panoptes and any other mythological figures I have time for. It will be all right.
- 1: Until I die in a wave of fucking mystery
- 2: When somebody destroys me, I want to feel it
- 3: If he wants to run away, that's his business
- 4: Brother, what's my name?
- 5: If you leave the room, then the king leaves you
- 6: Apologies like the birds in the sky
- 7: A lie for a lie and your soul for sale
- 8: We'll sail our souls today, but pay tomorrow
- 9: Because the tide is high and it's rising still and I don't want to see it at my windowsill
- 10: Just a telephone wire and a railway track
- Style: Classic for Refried Tablet by and
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