that what passes for prose is not even that which gets me through the day. I was ashamed of my presumptions in getting through the day. It was like me, similar to my old confusions. What—did you think you could devour the world and not get a tummy-ache? Did you think the free air would stand still for such stupendous taxation without … ?
Here empty of sentences stands one looking at a wall. All the hills behind echo radio truck tunes. What's in his pockets now? Keys and lint and lint-tangled keys. Pockets of old pants. Voices.
late 14c., "flax prepared for spinning," also "refuse of flax used as kindling," somehow from O.E. lin "flax" (see linen), perhaps by infl. of M.Fr. linette "grain of flax," dim. of lin "flax," from L. linum "flax, linen." Later "flax refuse used as tinder or for dressing wounds" (c.1400). Still used for "flax" in Scot. in Burns' time. Applied in Amer.Eng. to stray cotton fluff.
Something made of what's left of words. One needs a fit apparatus, sensitive receptors. Sunlight so easily mistaken for a god. Say, isn't there a opera where the sun tries to become a person but ends up a matchstick?
Explosion at the lint factory blamed on imprecise wheezing.
Face-Off at the Lint Factory.
And to wander far from Poetry … still … not far enough.