There are big things like the Self and Reason and Rationality and Rules.

There are small things like stupid pointless words.
Or, like running out of cash.

And the places we own would know

How miserably poor
How terribly rich

Were the moments we could have finished


It’s fatuous to wake a few wasted back and white Small Shots from the ruins, is it? Specially when you have unscrewed the top of your head and picked a few things from there and a few things from here, cut here, pasted there and rummaged and tangled so Big Things could be born, before you screwed it back.

If not that silly, then well, I could have a few things to say, you know.

For example, I could tell you that I really miss someone.