what has all this to do with you, Moldorf? the word in your mouth is anarchy. say it, Moldorf, I am waiting for it. nobody knows, when we shake hands, the rivers that pour through our sweat. whilst you are framing your words, your lips half parted, the saliva gurgling in your cheeks, i have jumped halfway across Asia. were i to take your cane, mediocre as it is, and poke a little hole in your side, i could collect enough material to fill the British Museum. we stand on five minutes and devour centuries. you are the sieve through which my anarchy strains, resolves itself into words. behind the word is chaos. each word a stripe, a bar, but there are not and never will be enough bars to make the mesh.
tropic of cancer