Says Borges in @3Ficciones@1, "I'm in hell. I'm dead," and the dark is glandular and swells about my feet concealing the ground. Let us love the sun, little children but it is around too much to notice and has no visible phases to care about. Two pounds of steak eaten in deference to a tequila hangover. His sign is that of a pig, a thousand-pound Hampshire boar. Some would say her face looked homely with that thing sticking out of it as if to feed her. Not I, said Wynken, not I. The child is fully clothed but sits in the puddle madly slapping the warm water on which the sun ripples and churns. |