Mission is Number One

Casual and intrusive, exhaustive: worse. It is not ever casually hot, Sue suggests, merely raises her hand, intoxicated and then dislocated: the fan is broken. There is no electricity. The secretary is without a desk. The detailed map of the interior, while highly sophisticated and indeed accurate, is no longer available. I believe it was a brief reminder, inappropriately quoted, Cheryl suggests. Her name is awkward. She needs to be fired, I mutter. Drinking, pandering, I do not care. The absolute reason, eventually, dissolves into the action, the consequence. I have, recently, abandoned stringent definitions and, instead and coyly, arrived for recognition. I have come for recognition. Six forty-nine in the morning and it is casually hot, though impossible, even improbable, yet existing. The electricity is broken, Warzol interrupts, as he is accustomed, a train of experience embracing a subjective universe—a metaphor?—yes, I apologize, allow me: a train of experience embracing a subjective track. Much better. Please begin again. It is like this at first. The themes were not adequately unveiled nor placed at mathematically unobtrusive and learnable intervals. The average mind, say the mind of reader X, would not subscribe nor comprehend this opening. He speaks to complete metaphors because he speaks complete metaphors. Sue is suggesting interesting ideas: mere intersections of possibilities, mere abilities to make me into a recognizable figure, a person of important ideas. I am trying, of late, and with minimal yet surprisingly aggressive success, to come to terms with my artistic self and I have found, without too much awesome introspective dialogue that I am fairly neat. You are neat, Cheryl says, reading, again, a quote: Unsuspectingly clever and upbeat. I have missed my exits and my smiles. No, no, there are forty-nine reasons why I am clever. I became an expert at reasoning when I was nineteen:

Don’t get caught out of bounds.