Some October frost froze the sphere in mid-air; professor and student set down their paddles to stretch their legs. Ping-pong frozen like in a photo taken atop the Turkish Mount Ida, looking down at a fallen oriental fortress in decadence under the Austin sun. In suspension with Cervantes, lazy, waiting for momentum to overthrow.

From deep within a shadowy swamp of dissertation alligators, where details roll about drowning ideas forced down well below sea level and intelligibility, the word late inside translation glowed more neon each night. And so from behind the great walls the gods lured Hector to his destruction. My doom has come upon me; let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter. And the gates opened.

What terror to grow old before you're done. Like the string of sounds lashed and bound round the ear. The ones that did not make it. The ones just missing because of a gust of wind. The ones left teetering at moments upon the precipice, the rim of the word processor set to purée, the purée that forms the cast setting the mold to produce the statue.

Adieu tristesse, Bonjour tristesse. Let's walk with (r)apt hope gained from days spent with Paul Éluard and Enrique Fierro. Two tomes. With one step let's toss our weekly workings overboard, bringing luck back to our side, making a man of whales become that man of Wales, correcting again and again from some sad height, never going gentle into that good night...
yelling I think that's a record just as we both collapse.