William Faulkner

Pressed into service by an unrepentant television, he arrives at the pen. He brandishes it clumsily, makes some marks on a page, turns up the volume on the knob inside his head.

“Fuck aesthetic! Aesthetic is accidental!” He screams this out the window into the night. He is a beast, scanning for chaos. Down below, he knows the men and women are silently shrieking.

Ugliness and language is the beauty of the dead.

Feverish! Feverish! Like Faulkner’s dogs, always in pursuit of feelings with flesh! Life’s on the line here, gotta get it right. Rip it out! Every revelation is vicious.

Stampede of belief and a quiet little bed.

Looks like what we’re looking for has already been read.

Managing his shoe salesman job has become a daily interference. After all, America is hard to conquer on a slope. He crushes his feet into size 8s as a matter of principle. He needs the pain. He goes to work every day and walks home. It does not matter if he goes home. By then, a portion of him has traveled on. Most remains. It’s not until much later, in the deepest part of the secret night, after he has had a glass several more, that his teeth come out. And the excavation begins. Blessed are the wounded. Blessed are the stubborn. Blessed are the wealthy. Blessed are the underwhelmed. Blessed are the damages inflicted under the night sky by every drop of anguish of the brothers and sisters of the brothers and sisters. 

We are all bottomless.


Books are not riddles. Don't fancy them. Press them against your skin. Smell the meat on those pages. Concentrate on the blemishes. Unless you're only looking to run away.