Billy takes a walk for the third time this day. He goes down past the arcades, doesn't have any money anyway. He turns up Broadway and strolls down Jackson avenue, past two dogs that fuck in the cool of alleyway. It's hot like the coals in his brain, like light razors broken by algebra, all two hundred and fifty pages of it.
He sees his face like he's walking along the moon, some blunt horizon pitted in battle against all those ridiculous stars but he doesn't let him bother him, just keeps an eye on the cars, as he crosses the street fearing the motorists like little evil wizards in mechanical dragons.
Such logic stirs up a long forgotten incredulity in him, shadow of a more youthful folly, a forgotten mania that makes him blanch despite all its spectacle. More simply, the association causes him to remember just exactly how like everything else everything actually is. and for a moment further still, even still, he fumbles with the phrasing, the assemblage and order of words that rise unbidden like plastic dolls in a lake, pregnant with air and mystery and suggestion. And despite admission of their awkwardness, he cannot help but conclude that there is no better way to say it, that anything more eloquent would rob the realization of the very thing that made it worth uttering in the first place. if language was to fail on such occasions, best that it fail spectacularly, with a drama to rival even the most Shakespearean of expressions.
Five steps and he metabolized that business like a flu, flushing it out with a guttural dismissal that any passerby might have easily regarded as a curse against the weather. Such an assessment was perhaps more accurate than any outside observer could ever realize, and though this thought too came to surface, it was dismissed more readily, as the he had already mastered the trick, though, it perhaps held more significance than any of the thoughts which had preceded it.
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