panning to the left and promanading to the right, taking it all in through his nostrils and trying not to fight, the words that he refuses to let spill on the beaten tracks of men. he glares through shaded glasses directly to the face of the sun, and feels, with all remorse, that he has only half finnished a race, weathered and torn out is his half beaten face, no signs of tornment and no relief from grace.
the bronze boy sits on a bench beside his sister reading a book outside the library where everything is still, while a man writes the ending to a story never started, smoking a cigarette and drawing blanks from the concrete, in a litirary context that runs down the ear of a well soiled carcase,
and i,
and my words,
just die .
