The Trouble With Bartleby

Not in the mood to put on faces social graces to hob or to nob. Irish exits are ideal. A cigarette listens without retort, the street accepts without requirement and just soon enough the subway welcomes endearingly consistent in its irksome qualities: the sign of being home. There's solace in the

yas yeht sevom emit taht sdrawkcab yletarucca erom, ro t'sneod ti taht evom lla ta tcaf ni tnemom yrev siht ta nettirw reven osla ev'i drow a kcab kool dna senil eseht no yldnof a, miws I sa neve eltrut aes naeco tneicna na ni a, stoor worg dna suoicagas dna eneres aiouqes

Grand Canyon and suddenly, passing through here I know it to be the work of hearts that beat like mine and all at once the desire to be anywhere else vanishes, as shame finds its inverse and I beam in the immense pride of our evolutionary striving: what great heights! what bright lights! Oh, Time

what you seek is in the anteroom. In an anti-room, without space (in that suffocating place) Is there a door? I adore you and your entrance [adoration entrance nation → ardor begets palpatation] If I leave can I return again? Turn, a gain: turn again, gain a jiggity jig. To everyt

As you leave, it's not so much the desire to kiss as much as put mouth on, or around; that first and most direct desire to receive via  - to nurse - that it might sustain in your absence. Perhaps one might take between lips a fingertip, as though it could stay behind; a reminder, like a marble or a

thrive bottom feeders rats and freegans prettiest of parasites sing a song of homeopathic hooliganism be nourished by slothful empire's excesses, suckle at its infinite invisible teat with your teeth bared

He showed up without showing up. I never go anywhere - but then again I'm always already there.