And so then they plead for things we don’t have, mostly blossoms or certain quantities of prettiness, because we lack the correct or useful delusions. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Am I a great con artist? But I “clicked” ( strange word) and it’s the same thing again—sure it’s pretty. But pretty is a projection of dead ideas, which is something Paul Goodman or Paul Blackburn would say, but with a bit more venom or revolutionary frisson. I mean. Probably. I get it: God bless the small things, the injured things, the bird that seems dead but turns out to be only temporarily inconvenienced by a pane of glass. And through this we understand a grand concept and it’s pretty the way the bow is neatly tied. To which I say “horseshit” and this is why I lack good looks, big dollars, and tenure. How much do we value beauty? We can’t value it in the same way Keats or the ancient Greeks valued it. We are looking at different things. But I can go back and read one of Horace’s odes and become immersed as if the entire Greek culture was a conspiracy theory full of wine and cloven hooves and wondrous sex. I don’t think that can exist in our day, in our culture, and pretending that it can is a grievous assault on ART. Nevermind. In my letterbox I found a sparrow and a government check which with I will buy a phone and I will call people everywhere on this planet and prove my unworthiness. I have heard that in the Levant, the hills are covered with wild thyme and hyssop. Perhaps I’ll go check out that gig. The crows today are ravenous but everyone on the planet seems to be super-into recovery of all varieties, which is a pro-forma bonus, no? Yesterday I saw that two of my friends made the last payment on their student loans, and I silently huzzahed (because to be actually vocal about it would come off as insincere) and I wondered aloud to myself (as I was the only one in the room) if anyone knew that I haven’t yet made my first?