And low heartbeats of sleep. I can taste their dreams. Rolls right. Bites the roof. Bewildering. White fogspit spans and stands for any arch embattled. This tame world is Castle Sordid. And I am the wild oddity they point at he’s autistic and you know, low IQ, no one understands them. I pick at it in the sacred land of scabbed abstractions. All abstractions have had scabs disarranged like no other dust of words. I do not know what they want from me. They don’t understand you so removing yourself from the scene of the crime seems to be the moral thing to do. We have inherited false conceits. I was dropping out of asleep directly to the part where in nonland – we seaslaves – of rubs short the blush, and only the Butcher’s Daughter knows where the Sinister Hootch Clittring bands of thieves hide themselves inside the grits box. Flivvers of the earth breathe woodfires and the gut hummers in their ground stand on it so let loose the motherfucker fright, all of us are hunched broken men in overcoats and scars smell like leaves and the fuckerfight with its promises of purity is dead to rights call off the dogs because people are hungry and when Godot arrives very serious decisions must be made. Godot has left the building.