Can you at least give me grandma’s house, I said. She’s almost gone, and she’s already vacated the premises. She’s no longer a player in this grand improv. We’ve tucked her into dying’s periphery. The benefits are at the door. They’re black and white. Dad. Deliver them to me. Let me burn them on the radiator, enacting the spell, releasing the vapors of her world into my world. The S.S. Appropouture could use the support. It is my birthright, Dad. Take your soup and pour it into your machinations. I am skilled at starving. Remind me of this, old home of my homes. The power of childhood. The true father of the man. The demon of that self of mine is buried in the basement. The Mausoleum of @madness. It’s time for a reconnection. The chicken scratch journals, the bleeding face in the mirror. A tarot nap awoken from, clutching the artifacts of adulthood as proof that I was here. That I saw the face of Moloch. I was touched by the city. The pizza man called me brother. I have paychecks with a New York address on them. It will be forwarded with me. It is part of me. We did our time. We got the stars. I touched the scene. I made my mark.


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