Living the life---Contained in it is the code of the maintained life that shoots up through the human-being’s back like the spinal chord; and segmented just the same. The human animal—this is conventionally refers to an authors sense that this idea is somehow ironical, which it clearly isn’t—is the driving force for all human action, and interaction. Art is sex, art is bodily hunger art is nerve ending disturbances, and left-over dream-cake. Life is also—as all things left to themselves for a great long time—cluttered, an absolute mess of images, feelings and sparks of empty-train inspirations, waiting for you to board. Who’s conducting? Where’s it headed—why are there so few on board (besides this woman in a black hat, and the teenage-baseball-boy in the next compartment)? So much of life is rooted in the fear that the living life might be hurt or pulverized in the train. Spiders down a secret tunnel, crawling, biting, laying eggs on the forearm—infection, abscess, gangrene, amputation, sepsis, death.

I knew enough about the destination to know it was not likely dangerous to my life. One can often see the habitable, nesting inertia of the longer life necessitates the hammer- smash of little jaunts such as this. I drink cranberry juice; the sun doesn't set as the aircraft travels with the day across the ocean--so I pretend, looking through the glass, and the warped fellow travelers, bloated male-flight-attendant, Sky-Mall Magazine Text--blazing red like auxiliary power on a submarine. Cleaning my fingernails. My shoes are uncomfortable. The man sitting next to me asked if I work for a famous IT company; I don't.