and then our exile

much noise lives in the city. it squats about buildings, it collects in gutters, it rushes through streets. and then it follows you home, and it is only by throwing a laughing three year old into the air numerous times that somehow - somehow - a form of freedom is again reached.

later in the evening the familiar understanding settles, hovers above the skin. and underscores fatigue.

in the school at chartres there is a line, something of the essence of totalitarianism is the refusal to acknowledge the limits of human capacity.

but this is not even that, it is simpler.

how, how simple.

bartleby was wrong.