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Fearing that I might have the sick-gray face as warned by Whitman, I lifted my coils and descended from the aleph to the middle kingdoms, and then a step below.  Perhaps I would sleep close with other sleepers, and dream their dreams?   One wonders what he would have made of these dens of inquity?  As a man travels through the ages, he becomes different people.  I could hear the young, vibrant Walt exhorting a stream of consciousness over the throngs ... and I could see the old, ravaged Mr. Whitman looking on, the fatigue of his long years imposing his physical exile, serving as a crucible for his green-eyed denouncement.

Crossed paths with E___, which (in all candor) was less serendipitous than I would have had them believe.  Our conversation was more meaningful for the pauses between the words; our intercourse began hesitantly, until we were able to pierce through our eminence fronts a bit and reach a consensus.  It was the right amount of good, an epicurean amount. It was good to see them again, and it was even better reciprocated.

Hours later, to maintain my balance of both recluse and gadabout, I attended this month's Klatsch die Uranodioningine.  ( 詞流動 / Read more ... )