I think so. I don't think so.

I believe, leaving, that the mole is two-thirds done. An elevator of bronze and those toes, whatever costs two of those and three of these. You sit down, spitting and speculating, having taken medication.

A newspaper, spurious but well-behaved, escaped our notification, we suppose, otherwise what? You'd think they'd have heard. Their ears! And eyes, too. Some people crawl with obvious direction, you know? A little tucker, the spent wastrel explains, has cost too much -- rooms of virtue, rooms of guts, rooms set aside for heart and dreams and toothaches. Father, where is your battery!

You, too, are slowly exposing a sexual extension. Slowly, as though close to removal. In the days we were eating a variety of circumstances, you'd remember, but an extenuation, wrapped in rice paper, is made up and replaced. Cruel boys. Standing is not absolute; you keep having to come up with another blossom. Weren't you going to dance the elephant requiem? Dirges ripple over barges during the evening of the president's first victory.

It ought to be over and settled, like a cloud of means. The ropes belay their image. What are you looking at? The kneepad reified by the atmospherics of the rumor. Quit trying to be like me, feeling, feeling. It's not the thing recommended, even by cats. You pay out for a new thought and get hair. There, there. You who are repaired are also mentioned for singular awards in the nighttime, especially come August. You are paid up, aren't you?

Stronger things have been spared. A nice spat. If you must smoke, think of my holy soak in a holy pond in a holy clearing sale on a holy oldies station. Then banish the drums. Call them what you've always been dying to call them. New people, friends drowning. Dip into the tusks. Walk all the way to the can of place.

listening to six songs from U2's "All That You Can't Leave Behind"