he had achieved atari.
He was joined with a prostitute at the time.
The moment surprised him,
but it did not elude him.
The whoremonger, in flow.
There may have been a point to this, which I've forgotten.
The Catholic Father in Portola, the Irishman.
I remember his smile now.
One summer, after reading a geometry book,
I wanted to know its slope, or a function that described his winter stroke.
No one will tell me where it was that his face fell.
In Midsummer Night's Dream.
I, Flute, am playing Thisby.
Who desires a kiss of Pyramus
through musty Wall.
I am neither Flute nor Thisby, but a teenage boy, reluctant.
The director only says, "Use that."