#102

Gamesome, but not Stevie, who's prone to scrag much merriment. Grimacing at the sun. Competing with the weather. Hands in pockets, eyes forward or down, and ears (traced by short dark hair) that're ruthlessly hard of hearing. I'm too hard on him, I know. A finer specimen than most he is. Idealistic, in whichever ideals he deals. And a will, tumescent and bent on images transcendent.

In this midden of a city, we're two muffins in a rag. I maunder, he marches. I lilt, he rises. Riddled in rhyme and subtle in spirit. A clumsy apostle I am to our town's false prophet. But what would he see in the solitude of his namesake's artistic economy? For I am capital, the world, and all that grows its own revleation. I am sound and character, italic and obscure. His seven days are my Seven Sundays, and his ardent route my departure. Non enim excursus hic ejus, sed opus ipsum est. For it is better that the whole world be destroyed and all perish utterly than that a free man should refrain from a single act to which his author moves him.