I found the page on the sidewalk. I brought it home and read it. I photographed the page, had it enlarged to a 6' x 4' print, and framed it. Now, upon entering the living room, my guests are confronted with it:
“Rocky. Shaky. With wings like tobacci. In the age of information, how can one keep themself optimistic about the future? Am I getting fat? The books have tired pages. Torn pages. I read small snippets and wonder “where is my tattoo?” Happy Birthday…all is full of love. But the movie is late and I’ll pay fines for having it. We’ll all pay fines for me having my movie. Does this tooth taste like pencil lead? Tis nigh, tis nigh. A low is expected to roll in tomorrow all around the car. Two hundred and seventy seven. The number must be mathematically significant to someone. But that is all beyond me. Granules of sea salt and drying ink. Take off the dust jacket before you put it in the case.”
It’s the only picture that hangs in the apartment. I’ve no idea who wrote it. I’ve no idea what it means. This is why I like it. Each day, before stepping out the door, it is the last thing with which I am confronted.
