There is an enormous pig farm in western Ohio where I woke up at, sandwiched between two slats of slate, the jagged sky and the washed out between-snows wintered earth.
I found this notebook in the dirt when I learned to read a word.
I have these early recollections, as Adler-not-Mortimer would say. My lifescript. My romantic programme, a la Berlioz. You know how it goes. Jejune puerile restlessness, liberation exhiliration, experimentation, crisis, boredom, ennui, depression, entertainment/diversion as self-medication, long dull suicide, the bourgeoisie regime.
Must get up. Memory of substance, the images dissipate in gray. Memory persists as the shadows fade.
Does the Father welcome back errant cognoscienti?
Perhaps as a scrivener, an archivist, a duster, someone to run the shredder, a repairer of crumbling books.
Un-sonned, sure, but one for hire.