The owner of the restaurant sat down. “The walls have ears,” he said, and then he quoted Plato and Nietzsche. “Do you know the most obscene word? The dirtiest word?” I could not think of a dirtiest word. “Billionaires,” he said. I should have liked to have been born a billionaire. Grease – fish heads – checkerboard – vanishing point – pewter – wax – garnished wages. I took my seat at the vision and relaxed my weary bones and muscles. “The pain I feel,” I wanted to say, “The pain I live with, you would never understand it, you can not understand.” But everyone is sympathetic enough. I have no right to speak about my own condition.
On a starship in the edge of space a crew of American heroes fly in the spirit of Gods, like Hephaestus they craft golden automatons of unprecedented power and send them patrolling the earth, sea, and heavens; the cowboys took flight, the frame of the picture thinned and turned black; “Move over,” he barked, and then hit me; so I confronted him. Disrespect – abomination. Then, in the pit, a laconic indifference. “How did it feel?” It felt fine. We feel fine.