Henry wrote us in late summer. He liked to say that from Somebody's niece is the sheriff. Now she missed him. It was true, and we said no such things. Or chewed gum. The nostalgia was insistent as the light of a brothel. And also as brothel, had blue velvet walls. Spoil the future. All roundabouts, junctions, the crossroads that radiated beauty crossed with posters of exotic names: Sonora, Puerto Principe, Macao, Abyssinia, Region. But we had put our heart into a serious predicament. We did not know the extent of things. Or we spent on ready or we played dumb. And that we had no scenes in super 8, or draft form, and that someday our memory drugs or erase last year's poems in the toilets of bars, sneak cigarettes in the McDonalds, the couch of a portal too bright, the snow, the basement of a bookshop, a library in the middle of a park a flat ice cream in a suburb, several illegal vhs, pasta dishes with tomato, poems, silliest girls in the world, coffee and cigarettes, and above all faith in this world worth more than shit.
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