Even beauty forgets the scraping of the wolf wind into whose frosted windows were only half of what the Old Man, married as it were to rust. Was What Old Man. My Old Man. The Old Man with his women and his Canadian Club. Something for at night to suck on when the machines have  turned themselves off to Suck Juice from huge vats, and things vanished into the squeezing and the groaning of your I Will Wipe It Clean.