Fill your glass. Paper is fast becoming a sin. I’m culpable. My iron levers ache and groan, my springs scream with a forced guilt, a liability owed somewhere into the future. Dust becomes me, almost as well as the mystery of what I might do next, what commitment awaits the page. I’m a dirty eavesdropper pregnant with immortal lines like the cool rainbreeze on a summer’s night over long-buried bones. Cheese Twisties and red wine in my gears, I roll with the punches. The grubby sex of fingerprints in my intentions, my miscued fondlings, my clattering amour. I miss the friendship of candlelight. I have spent too much money on flowers and chandeliers and not nearly enough on whores. Whores have a mind only for the future. I make the mistake of thinking they are my diurnal angels, my angels of now, that they have heritage. No matter. The world will write itself. One way or another. Flip the lever, send the ribbon on its journey back again. Push it for all its worth till a tear in the fabric of the day means it can no longer go on. My style the indomitable imprimatur for everything that will one day bring you back to me.