The problem, I think, is that I don't know what to put here. Narrative bores me. Are there, is there anybody who really cares what huge animals were born next door? I don't, anymore. Those holes have turned into a lake.

Loverett is mute, but at least he listens.

I can't virtuoso anymore. All my joints are stiff. I may need surgery. And I need to finish my novena. It's lodged in my throat, or some other drainpipe.

I don't know, I don't know. There's nothing left to say.