I am nothing now. I may be dead. Any aversion
to that, anyway, is gone. 'If that is sensitive and
suicidal intent, it's really just a fake on a feint.
Do nothing 'til you hear from me. You are a
strong but dangerous talent.' My gypsy lady
here was reading my cards, or claiming to
do that anyway. She loved me, or said she
did, and relationship was started on that.
Now really that's ass backwards. There has
to come something before love. My wise
and tender servant seemed here more
like a vaudeville intent, and boy do
I hate performance. Like a duo of
seers, I thought we could run
on our way. Not to be.
I remember I had told her once that
I went to my typewriter everyday
looking for God. She laughed, and
said, 'the paper, or the roller?' Was
that funny? I never could tell.