Yesterday I watched Kinch cut into himself with a knife and pour peroxide on the wounds until he was huffing and trembling -- and I enjoyed this. Both of us did. There's a story in Winesburg, Ohio that talks about how, when the apple orchards are picked clean, all that remain on the trees are the twisted apples, too knotted and ugly to be sold. But these apples, in the story, are also the most delicious and once a townsperson tastes their sweetness they are unable to go back to eating the round market apples. So that is a little like me, I flatter myself to think. I prefer the twisted apples, the stranger pleasures.

In books, you can find a justification for any barbarism if you're willing to look for it.

On another note, I've spent the morning reading old diaries, sifting through peculiar poems I can't remember writing.
Harold Bloom, resplendent in his folds of ample flesh,
the fifty-ninth reincarnation of Akshobhya, Unmovable Buddha of Wisdom,
sits lotus on the bodies of lesser scholars.

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