We’re all pretty good at doing at least one thing,
but this fetish for nonsense is so distasteful and
leaves me at such a loss (clinging quite literally
to nothing, gasping as if there were any air left).
Oh, Pinocchio, how little did we ever know!?
Meanwhile, at the sermon on the luxury of an
expansive vocabulary, or it could have been on
the expansive vocabulary of luxury, during which
he sat, this much he knew, for the entire duration.
Let the record show that he really did. And yet. The
one and only thing he could remember about it at all
was when the preacher said “Can it like a salmon,
Sweet Lips!” Which was surely the butt of some
awful joke. This is what he must have thought, only
a few days later. Most assuredly. And yet. He could
not afford the luxury of remembering anything but.
The butt of some red-faced, fire-and-brimstone preacher’s
zinger. By which he had neither the courtesy nor the
memory of being offended. He was ever the disappoint
ment. Such an utter disappointment he assuredly was.
