A bowl filled with letters or a bowl filled with numbers, which is less organized? Some of the frayed universe for pockets. I was looking forward to the time off. I wasn't going to write. Or read. I would smoke a joint and watch Buckaroo Bonzai. I would bathe. The light reflected by the earth is less organized. Then when it left The sun. Same for the moon at night. The boiling pot is order. I would walk. You first need to acquire an almost super-awareness of the dusk. Also, it will cost you a letter in your name. Henceforth to be omitted, in writing and in speech. Do your socks match the awful joy that for some brief perspective no matter the foreground includes its end? To get an idea, watch rain drawn down a pane. It's not chaos. And if we had the guts, it would stir us home more than it does. At the end of the night, at the end of our exploration, you wanted to know my name. But it wasn't mine to give. The paperwork we found, we burned it, it was mostly poetry. You said we should write down afterwards how we remember it. And the ghosts, they too had names. Remember them. I made a list of all the groceries. But due to long Lines, instead I found a list of all the unmade beds in the city. Including a short biography on the pillows. Send a SASE. Do not include my address. Put it into a bottle. Fold it into a plane. I know where to look for it. I have a knack For lost places.