old old old

now I type into a tiny window about everything which is whirling like tiny
thunderclouds through my brain. when I read a couple of things about nothing,
there was nothing to be had. Nightwood is lurking in my brain and Djuna Barnes
is dancing tappily into the outskirts of my brain… When he stepped into
the room, would I be surprised if icicles began to shiver on my nose? or
was I expecting, perhaps, daggers flung beneath clokey friendship? what is
it to you, my trottering friend, if I succumb
to plunging daggers, poison-dipped and aching.

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