The Front Matter, Dead Souls

THE LATTER

whose cells or cylinders is the blade. Yet at dawn he's carried in the street. Action isn't the same as one, so it's dawn. Flesh recedes not born, there, but it's only in the other's seeing it. So him blue curled in the dark air is without mind. The image is subjecting everything to occurrence. This only exists here overtly, clumsily. To subject in love with his flesh to occurrence per se. The hippo met on the path darting aside eyes turned to the side huge on the dawn can't get into being born the bullrushes are born at a time there. Subject to the dawn. She withdraws on the long member standing up in her. Then puts it in. She comes. Turning, sitting up on him. Surrounded by the people shooting up, he's lying with the eyes gazing downward. She peels back the thin covering to look at him, and the blood has soaked the gauze on his chest which is moving slightly. Seated coiled sleeping in the plates of armor sockets of quills on the shoulders, no movement on the lidless eyes and yet responds then to the intercepting soldiers. They're attacking for the food and he who's hungry himself sleeping his eyes floating. Coiled emerges in the plates of armor of quills on the shoulders, his sleeping eyes float. THE LATTER 'm Deerslayer. The handsome head of sumo answers the phone, and since Dead Souls isn't there, Defoe tells him she's going to the the front matter, dead souls 34 I Getty Museum to meet the partner and needs money then to leave. To tell the latter that. She hangs up, surrounded by the thin film green air. Emerging from the phone booth onto the sidewalkof the street, she goes through a few people shooting up. The neon signs looming, there's a pool or corridor of quiet underneath, the surveillance helicopter hanging and moving above. One is just in that circle of beam, so to become very still loosens it. Not visible in the blank beam of it as hardly moving. So there's only this. It moves on chasing, with the beam. What hardly moves in the beam is blank. Anythingseen is blank, to be not visible. So this isn't excitement, excitement itself is stigmatized. It's a cauterized hole, in which is the small embedded sufficiently shrunken that the rose-jewel intestine is lying on the surface in it, a gel within the rotten frame. The gel appears to be a deep rose gem in the corpse. Defoe gazes down at the slender man who's sleeping. It's burning in the corpse, or rather is a lake. The man's chest had had the knife plunged in. He's sleeping softly, the sweet breath outside his lips. The latter had extracted the knife instantly fiercely withdrawing it. With the wrestling ring and crowd folding upon him, there's no dream even. His face isn't moist in fever but almost tender sleeping. Awake, that's the memory of him sitting at the latter's kitchen table sipping tea and as he's laughing shelling sunflower seeds. He eats the seeds. He's lying on a cot and in the dim light of dawn Defoe's watching his chest breathe slightly. Our connection to events is existence only. Leans over him as onto the still lake in which is the jewel. Chick-the-stick, the greyhound, running to and fro in front of the black waves can't be seen receding except when the latter 35 coming to them and dipping. As if kneeling to the waves coming in, the doe is on the tray briefly. No days are sustained in the light elation. No worrying comes up in it. It's not even for itself; itself isn't sustained either. When it had still been black, the latter's sitting in her kitchen at the table as the police search the place, head protruding from one room and in the hall. She smiles at him graciously , and opens her home to them, the doe-like greyhound rising softly fed from her hand. Officer says that Akira who's in the LAPD is corrupt and is into drugs. Bending with the tall frame that's a bow rippling, the officer almost kneels in the ring by the sliced shimmering sumo...