#87

Coffee and the hint of milk that's soured. Cold morning. Old home, night-image: I stood at the bottom of steps and departed. Mothers. Sarah has one, but does Stephen? He has his father's name. Picture him, before the door to Seventh Street, the still radiator (painted white) on his right.

Otherwise, the dull art of learning remains tedious in company. Adrian drops his glasses. I write Vicki a letter, but save it as a draft. And DC's chirming din of students, locust-like in rapt attention. "Baudry's Placid Apparatus" (only Terry Johnson laughs).

E E Cummings, Shock Headed Peters. Jamie (oh Jamie) O'Neil. Would one call that knowledge? Close in distance. Smells in dimness. Print to txt, and analogue... We follow the route that's marked, L-gray or Jmzy green. A schedule is a gathering. Or a promise, accident?

The clear blue exigencies of language. Neveremind the nose of Jeff, who has a blog. The hidden workings of language. One month and nine days ago. "The Love That Dare Not Speak It's Name." Dedicate, si Lucas Chiamarsi.