X. FISHBOWL DOLL

It’s one thing to collect and another thing to recollect. Though recollecting is like electing certain memories and displaying them at the foreground of particular irrepressible . . . illustriously imposing images summoning up the endless unnamable procession streaming flawlessly through one’s bluesful agony of fishing a sustained flow of events through the patchy clouds of time’s revolting burps, the distortions of everyday visions often get raised to another level of perception . . . Or deception . . . However, collecting crow’s feet is neither expensive nor suspenseful hooey. Never tensive . . . Positively not offensive. I am convinced. Some might say that’s defensive. I get the point, but that’s not the point, but fuck those. Collecting old crow’s feet is so fucking relaxing and affirmative hobby that I can’t see any qualitative substitution to this sedative initiative. I said old crow’s feet. Gotta be old, bit and experienced to qualify for my collection. Though my fish bowl doll, who lives down the hall is a different story.

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