There is a special sound as I sit here in the study with the window opened near. Resonance--a sort of buzz-ring, created by distant cars with their spinning tires, overnight road construction projects, the amalgam of AC fans, late night baseball game skylight generators, 757 aircraft engines---All cutting into the air, slicing it, crushing it, pushing it, sending it retreating in all directions in effeminate clearish purple curly-locks of turbulent micro eddies cracking and whipping, crying, complaining. The battle is far off, sound pillowed-over by distance and obstructions, brown-painted fences, generic aluminum siding, awkward children at play in roller skates on the road slowing traffic, sometimes nearly dying, for games.

Practice. We started giving names to each tooth. One was a porcelain dental implant so was it's neighbor. We like not to think of the screws and cement bonding them to our maxiofacial bones, and for now at least, gum tissue does the job of disguising the complex, sharp, alien infrastructure. One interesting phenomena concerning these teeth is that since they bond directly to the bone, there is no give. A normal tooth can sway 1/4 of one millimeter in either direction without causing the least discomfort-these teeth are hemmed in by a feeling of tautness--they are pulled in and tied neatly then cushioned by bone meat. Normal teeth can also 'feel' the rough surface of the tongue running over them, glazing and cleaning them. The porcelain teeth can jostle against their screw anchor, but the anchor itself is completely stationary--this feeling of inescapable stillness combined with the general bulging shape of the artificial tooth along its rear (as they're designed to prevent the introduction of foreign particles into the makeshift gum-sockets) leave the sensation of a blankness, a vaccuum; the small death-penalty: Two gravestones. In short these porcelain teeth felt like death; Immutable and unnatural. Rocks around which there swirl the liquid complaisancy of life spreading around them--life made to adapt, to swell and create new, albiet auxilliary, models for subsistance.

There is a restaurant where the cows come before you, just like lobster in the tanks, before they are sloughtered for your dinner. The cow is lead before you by the tall French chef's-attendant. You see your soon-to-be dinner as it lives--A lazy dumb, fat, drooling, terrified--simply delicious creature. The walkway is a clean steal one. The tables are situated around the walkway as if this were a fashion show. This is not so different from a fashion show. The lights are all pink red, and the floors, square pillars and ceilings are black. The design is clearly meant to echo and inspire in one the creuel machinations of the sloughterhouse, though tasefully softened by the eleganty festooned company and the perfessional slim-fit service, the lightglobes, the did-up faces all turning and eyeing the prey; hands shuffling between smoke, heads bobbing in silence then variously instigating muffled constipated little bouts of excited discussion. The cow ambles by and turns at the end in a half-moon. Anus showing behind tail, urine dripping. This thing is alive and is slowly, calmly (calmer now) lead back to its death-room--each shadow dances in and out of pink globe light, a spotlight for each conspirator taking turns to sign up--eyes turning (and cow eyes turning) shooting around aiming for others' enlistment, seeking the collective approval--the carnivalesque courtliness of the Killing. It's screaming.