Sometimes I think my outreach sucks and I just
want to chuck it - quit all this gibberish and walk
away. No one's here, nobody's talking, and everyone's
talking all the same. Wasting my time posting shit
as a game. This long hallway is lined with posters -
mostly they are posters of ideas I haven't touched.
There's my challenge staring me in the face. I must
go on and I really can't stop. Rows of young women,
call me over, serene fancy men want me to be just
like them. I see the haircuts and the foods that
everyone is posting, and I just want to go home.
But, again, here I am - my foot is caught in some
sort of jamb, a door-post from the Civil War, or
some twisted Physics idea about time taking me in
and dimensions throwing me out. I walk through it
all taking notes - like a white cadaver walking
through Princeton's gates. Long robe topped with
nothing but the idiocy of other escapes : the men in
tophats, scribbling in their notebooks on the old
stone benches, all those guys taking a shit in
the cloaca maxima*. I just go on, alone.
*Princeton university's old, communal, campus sewer system