quin is bored. beth gave him the style and design issue of time magazine. he found no style and little design. he found more evidence that lenny kravitz for some reason wants to wander this life looking like a dork. old news from nowhere.
in the slow afternoons preceding their evening's employment the girls at mrs. montoya's read philosophy. emerson. how 'bout emerson? mr. jones hits idly at the piano. koo plunks his ukulele. adelaide swirls her hips fondly remembering her life as a morrocan dancing girl with that other morrocon dancing girl named clarice who came from brooklyn. mariella reads to impove her english no one knows why her beautiful big lips and her garbled vowells. all this beneath fu manchu's godly gaze.
meanwhile sheriff haney scott's chain gangs dig the proposed highway through the city of dogs.
i'm worried about simba, who is the golden retriever belonging to joshua and juliet, for joshua has gone to italy to sculpt and juliet to normandy to write a long poem. and i'm worried about those seeds trapped in debra ramsay's paintings. but their sacrifice does remind me that seeds make a more interesting metaphor for cultural transmission than roots.
knowlege is not a tree but a briarpatch into which seeds fall happenstatially.
"junkyard" is "illbient" un-electrified.
5:25:18 PM 
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