Thousand: Seven Hundred Fifty-Six

someone far it comes. You look into the sky and see contemptuous angels sneering at you. You look at the earth and see centipedes wearing round booties marching back and forth across the sidewalk crack, chanting, praying. Maybe you should close your eyes. You’re not seeing right. You have wasted your sight, and now what do you have? Only everything. Only every thing in the world remaining. It’s the sort of thing that makes one sad. Violins are playing in an Italian café, the players walking around the circular tables, deftly avoiding running into each other. There’s that name again.