The Man In The Moon with his collapsible Floridian eccentricities, his travails in the shape of old cheese, his growling acquiescence to the cycles his mother has bequeathed him, his bloodlessness in the face of exaltation (just when you thought he would give in to the fascinations of power, he putters around his brooding townhouse like a sullen implement), his deep commitment to figuration, his entirely unreasonable way of speaking to the sun, his father, his mirror, even, one could argue, his memory–– sometimes I just want to tell him to snap the fuck out of it, his faith in me be damned. But then I begin to countenance his sorrow, I sing him the lullabies he used to sing me when the two of us were younger and his youth was what made all the poets twinkle in a bereaved firmament like momentary arcs of fire and prejudice, I soften his self-inflicted blows, I bleed him into his balsamic vegetation like a medieval doctor with a cure for Black Death.
Big Brother I like the empty rooms where nobody lives but clothes lie scattered about anyway. I like the simple freshness of a place where nobody is, where no shadow troubles the corners and no scent of cooking or emanations intrudes upon the purity therein. In an empty room the window is the brightest feature, the father of the view and a world outside outdoes the one within. When a room is empty you don't want to live in it, you want it to live in you, for its peace and behavior, its beauty as the thing itself, silver metaphorical lakeboat. What little in empty rooms makes one sad––a window cracked open, the whisper of a mouse, their having recently been cleaned–– protects one from wanting them too badly, from tearing oneself open to implant a room too big for a soul long closed for business. An empty room unto itself should be shuttered and dark, unviewed and unviewable.