Grasping at straws, he puffs to keep his
system afloat, his inertia having gone so
forwardly to hell. Let us keep this thing
alive by sitting here, he thinks, as if he
is actually thinking. He knows he’s no
thing, and to whom can that particular
characteristic(?), that thing that he is
not—being what he is—be attributed?
This award goes to whom? He knows
better than to reward himself, so he
works at trying to get the mechanics
creaking once more. What’s in here?
he bangs his knuckles at his ear. But,
he sees no evil. Cannot provide any
evidence of anything, much as he knows
that he owes. Oh, he owes and owes.
