as if that dried little puddlet of institutional pink soft-soap were a Brobdingnagian slab of vaguely porcine jade some secret of a Jomon Mu, or the strange living interface of a Struldbruggian collective memory into which he would divulge his inner self as a random derivation of subject, a Hirngespinst of openings, and imagine being naked there, on the brink of a cosmological porcelain, bowing down to touch his forehead to the pink hum, some memory of a dark thundercloud furrowed like sable static, and in the air (that blizzard of invisible strings) improbable, the waxy whiskered avatar with a yellow baseball cap, whose embroidered ensign, a Haida sun symbol, reasons, and checking its temporary beard against that section of mirror, some species of absolute surface, temporal in Gods public rest-room, forever awake, awakening, but reflecting reflections commentaries like a head bristling with chrome gargoyles (drooling pink molten jade), the little imp would disappear, but its perversity live on, a ray, the pink that, splendor of a bounce.
