I can do better than this, I say, falling asleep in a valley of farm hands. Chris lives here, ashamed. The frontrunner has gone home. Her fantasy fell apart on her. Bladed Days.

I wake through a thick lining of green mucus. It is Sunday. Musette is in bed with no pants. I am in the chair next to her, typing. The words spill from page to page. They’re jamming up the wrong places, scattering in the flow.

This haze is heavy on my head. It’s like I’m a blind cat with its eyeballs scooped out, walking through Insidious fog. The typewriter has become an entirely different sort of machine. The way to use it is different. The ways to use it are many and varied. I am practicing Jeet kun do, following the rhythm of the flow.

I’m standing here, the fog sliding around me, slippery.
Dadaism makes a deliberate conscious effort to turn the tables upside down, to show the absolute insanity of our present-day life, the worthlessness of all our values.
My eyeballs have been scooped out. My particles have been pulled apart.
Who is the writer without the audience?
“Do you think you are some sort of celebrity? That you have world renowned international fame?”
Two Chains is bound to his chains as they are to him.

I have to make this resume, so that I can maybe get a job as a writer in New York; and I have no idea what that is going to entail – compromise, as Henry Miller might put it; but how can I be a fully present writer in the current times while leaving this new form or careering out of the question?

America: here we are.
Here I am, a Lone wolf.
It is a better place to be. Floating and being torn, tortured like Dostoevsky.
Piper told me she hopes I am enjoying Vanity Fair. I do not tell her that I lost my place in it.
I had begun reading Pop Serial. My name is nowhere to be found.
What is my name?
What are we once our names fade away?
Who are you when you are no longer a trip friend?
Where is Galaxim? Has he made that transition?

This is the direction and the point in the story where we keep moving forward. We have written books. You can see them all down the lining of my sight. I am moving beyond the black dot. There are so many good images on the internet. My handwriting is on the internet. My music is on the internet.
I have read about Mrs. Crawley and her sirloins of beef so many times now. Will I ever find my place again?

Do you think you have the power to slow it down?
This may be a suit of water, and the gift of this moment may very well be Jeet kun do.

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