I thought of something that interested me. Not because I thought the thought did it interest me, but because of what was the thought. The thought was not me, neither was it about me other than its presence within me (or within what we shall call for convenience sake the soul that is me) as [...] [...]
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to her place by the river. Okay, it’s not her place, it’s got Tom’s name on it, or that’s what people call it, or that’s what the song is about, the stuff that goes on there, down by the river, where babies are lost, are shot dead. But the Vega, the Chevy Vega, is so [...] [...] This is not the most horrible sixty-three minutes and thirty-six seconds of music I’ve endured, I’ll give it that. Never mind who or what is or were the soulless, union-paid minions whose 401K-inspired realization of this… I don’t know, thing, I suppose, that approaches aural manifestations of caramelized, vitamin-impregnated, gum-slicing-even-while-milk-soaked breakfast cereal equivalent of who-knows-what [...] [...] |
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