Back in the day I would lock my vault with twenty clams, all of them with perfect, flawless pearls inside of them. I don’t think I could ever hear another noise that reminded me so much of—when does a telephone pole—string together with a synonym of actions? Hello? Hello hello hello. That window over there. That person has been staring at me for over twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. Stop. Pine. Whimper. Whimper whimper whimper. My dog sometimes whimpers in the night, I sometimes whimper in the day. Time. With ovations of rewards and a fine settlement of polychromic taste buds. You know what I mean? I mean that I’m mean, with all of the acorns and pinecones in the world, as if I slipped in the sea. Nobody talks to me. When you consider the ins and outs, or the lefts and rights, way way way up there you get at nothing, at least I think? Or maybe you get a giant guffaw, as if the world is drowning itself in one big gulp. Like an overbloated piece of gristle hanging from grizzy Grizzly… in a way that is what it is about. Like failing per se, or a dark road that climbs mountains at its own pace and in its own discretion. Table table, oh table, your covering I think it has dust underneath it. In essence. But why does my toe itch? That’s the question I want to know. A frail and naked tree stands in front of my white house.