We are sunbathing amidst the yellowing grass, chattering about our futures; we, friends, graduated, progressive, camping out at the margins of crumbling institutions. Let's play-read Tarot, why not! Not possessing cards, we draw from numbers blindly assigned to the picnic items.
Could I have a durable passion, please? I pick numbers and get rolling paper, sigarettes, and a fast-ageing veggie salad: Passion, it is twin to addiction, you want one but'll get the other.
. . You must enjoy the consistent suffering they give you more than their occasional fruits. . . Get used to mixtures of daily dosing and short-lived wildfires. . ..
I sip beer listening to the readings, light a sigarette—I never smoke.
I imagine myself a writer now.