I am supreme. Or I used to think so.

Everyonce in a while, bits of doggerel pop into my head. They're little bits of cesium, eating their own tails. You know how it is: you have a complicated system, capable of producing maddening complexes of complexity, but the side effect is that pieces pinch themselves off and live their three-cylinder lives all on their own.

So for instance:

Joan of Arc
Patron of France
Burned at the stake
For wearing men's pants.

Whose idea was that? I disavow it, so it must have its own volition.

I'm sure those things are siphoning off my own vitality. What goes around comes around, I suppose, but come on, be at least a worthy opponent. I can just see them, two or three interlocking glass rings filled with my own blood. Or some other fluid pellucid at the depth of half an inch. And the blood circulates; that's the galling thing. Or some other fluid.

But now, see, I am all particle-board particulates, and I could use that vitality. No, no, that's not the way it works.

I wanted to say something about the moon. I wanted to use the word pellucid later on. I wanted to imply a repetition compulsion. Or maybe it was "limpid" I wanted to use. Maybe they are both stupid words and I meant something else.

I guess even the drowning blow bubbles.