the recorder birds, little Indian children on their balconies, SO many Indian people how wonderful.

the meaty sky, clouds like pulverized escalope and the rich, dark grey blue like dryer lint, except commingling in the heavens where escalopes leap like mountain goats in spinning dryers, but then everything does turn to lint after a time. all those different blues. and how walking away from that sunset is like that cool guys don´t look at explosions song, that there is so much happening behind you, except, more likely, you´re just indifferent, a heathen.

and the guy at sana, and his brother, probably, who just makes you think it’s a magical place and that you¨re awfully distractable, this man aging and youthing uncannily, but they both wear v neck black t shirts and have the same same same nose, and how the younger one, the warmer one, who hadn´t yet been deadened by how incredibly ugly sana is, as if to prove to everyone and have them prove it to themselves that they+re really just there for the food ++ it cannot be anything but a purely culinary experience in there, those air conditioning fixtures are clearly meant to provoke rather than cool, who gave me such a nice little knowing, older brother nod when my takeout was ready.

and the ballfields on ball street, where the quebecois coaches exorted lehhts go lehhhhhts go

and apparently that area is really poor but its evidently the poor of workers who aren’t well paid for their work, but so many families, the beautiful little girls on the street, like a warmer Hasidim. AHHHHH HOW WONDERFUL THAT PLACE IS.

and the Acadie metro station with the pepsi stuck in between, must have been thrown, stained on the sides. could be in the MLB says uncomprehending passerby

and finally the little sprinkler i thought was a hurricane of cicadas, i was so flush with my senses, with the little things, i was smelling the roses, inventing them

is clint eastwood´s conservatism implicit in his crime filled movies, he sees the world that way and therefore

last night i was gulping air, like i was climbing mountains with every step, like i was a snake unhitching his jaw because he wanted to swallow the world. so much delicious air popping and cracking between my jaws. and singing, i always want to sing when i´m like that, and so i did, please don´t step on the bush, and that southern accent, and really really really finding s hilarious because she did not understand how we felt, though drugged herself. guffawing at the sky by the bus station was not because of montreal´s corrupt construction business juxtaposed with the quebec library, so silly. honestly, all you´d need to do is parachute people into our circumstance, of our wakefulness, into those wee hours of the morning, into that hideous downtown with those holes in the bright sky that hadn´t yet lit up anything beneath it, and you would have a lot of drugged people. and k, k the absolute lunatic, eyes dripping and staggering with mirth, almost frightening, took the risotto away from me in bed, which was cruel, but she was losing it too much to speak, so funny. s was encouraging her to puke, in the middle of van horne, good way to go, i felt so too. i remember her upper jaw seemed detached from her face, raving, and i felt that too.

and stereo! stereo did have amazing sound, it cradled my body like a trillion dots, it buzzed my face like the gentlest dentist instead of the rollicking, bursting noise in a normal club. except there were just so many topless gay men, of all top varieties