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Scattershot

The game I’m playing with this blog is diffuse, unregulated, and often as terse as one can be while engaged in verbal or textual expression. It records postscripts to thoughts I haven’t shared, reactions to events only I have witnessed, impressions of hardly embossed moments.

The afternoon sun is drenching the room in bright rust, the stark blue sky a palimpsest in the bare trees, and as I stare out the window, I find myself remembering things from our trip.

We drove up from LA as the afternoon faded, and in the dark, we passed a trailer park lit like a prison compound. They kept Ezra Pound locked in a cage beneath floodlights all night. How many Pisan Cantos are being written in one of those light-drenched shacks?

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