I

May 3, 1918

March hung on the wall like a stale, broken rat. He lay on the badminton net and sung small cheez whiz notes to himself, posted them on the wheat stalks chasing him across the pasture, took another moment to steady the right of way, and slowly sat up straight. "There's another book I've never read." The thought flew about in his skull, banging up against the transparent crystal cage. Frantically it broke its neck, and disappeared. He opened his mouth. No poles or ropes appeared, a funless opendom, and he waited for the quiet to switch him off.

June 21, 1995

They stood on the bed and slept so tired I couldn't could you now not sitting straight too much to even lie

to kick each other, and they both woke up dreaming and at the same time, alone he thought there were and are more things outside his room than in.

It was good.

So and so Bertha slipped away to where the more things were and made breakfast. He stayed, a minor subset.

He watched the late show. (It was night.) (The night was cold.) (And dark.) (Too.)

May 5, 1918

Just not worth it?

Clay pigeon shooting, he deduced; found, one dead exploded brain, evertrue pasture, and no sports equipment. One step further. Lying bastard, he thought too. Slowly the swoop fell, and he disappeared, buried, the victim of speculation.