He walks through town with a wooden metre stick in his hand, leading a white-haired dog with a semi-shaved flank. He sings to himself in a tuneless tra-la-la. Today, he feels contained; today he is miming data, a soft pursuit of shapely patterns. There are matters to discuss, he thinks, accounts to be reconciled. Lies to entwine into a sturdier rope to dangle from.
Where should we go, how should we get there, very vexing. A tidal wave of questions that threatens to swamp his consciousness. Leaves him floundering with inaction. Verbs escape him. It is the perpetual now.
spiral scratch
oxford comma .. . { vampire weekend }
you’re pretty good looking (for a girl) .. . { the white stripes, de stijl }
i don’t know enough about you .. . { peggy lee }
No comments:
Post a Comment