The House Is A Factory.

So I Should Be Aware Of The Dangers Of Self-consciousness, But At The Same Time, I’ll Be Plowing Through The Fog Of All These Echoes, Plowing Through Mixed Metaphors, Noise, And Will Try To Show The Core, Which Is Still There, As A Core, And Is Valid, Despite The Fog. The Core Is The Core Is The Core. There Is Always The Core, That Can’t Be Articulated. Only Caricatured.

Also, I Need Deadlines, Just Like Everybody Else, Especially Coming From Magazines, Newspapers, And Stuff Like That. I Need Daily Or Weekly Deadlines To Get Stuff Done, Or I Continue To Do Things And Not Go Off On A Year Of Unproductivity.

How Had This Happened? Everyone In The World Knew More Than Us, About Everything, And This I Hated Then Found Hugely Comforting.

I Went To Public School All My Life And All Through College And I Liked It.

He Remained, Weeks After Awakening, In That Period Of Early-morning Consciousness That Allows Easy Re-entry To Dreaming. His Limbs Still Tingled With The Residue Of Sleep, And Most Days He Wanted Badly To Allow It To Overtake Him Again.