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To Sean Underwood's previous piece
The passion is in death. Or the race for it. The passion is found in thousands of dead writers who all stole my lines. Spontaneity is found in the best-laid plans at the bottom of my next can of beer. Or is the one after that? Or is it the one after that? That is trailer life for you.
Iím that guy with the shepherd-pit mix that eats through doors. Iím that guy. My poison is my drive. Or is it the other way around? Multitask to oblivion, finding no relegated time to shine.
Fortunately, I am my own brasso. I am my own buffer. My impending loss is not mine alone. It is found in the hearts of the recluse. It is found in the dead cat that is stiff as a board at the end of my road. It is found in my eleven-year-old silver and blue Parker pen. Ahh, that resonant click click click clack click clack click clack click.
Our vehicle belongs to the crazy guy at the end of my loop. That mud puddle is his solace. He walks with the sun. Waxed ears are best because you donít have to try; you donít have to try. Waxed brains make the best candles. The power of which can subdue that sickening poison you spoke of.
That is quality, ask Persig to ask Phaedrus. Heíll let you know why snow falls and why certain people walk with a gangster lean. Heíll tell you tell that owl it takes one hundred and sixty three licks to get at the center of it all. That is Zen. Facilitating the obscene. Heavenly manna. Chicken soup for the distended bowel. Fiber for the irritable. Metamucil of the soul. Pureed peas wait for us all, itís our choice if we want to stick around.
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