While the French were out drinking wine and toasting the revolution, I was again carrying doors over draw bridges and scribbling and erasing. Tallest door yet.
It was hot and the sun all cadmium colored while somewhere in Paris cathedral bells were ringing and Clark ordered frites while nodding off and stroking his bald head and muttering about the Vietcong and how he’d swallowed a bug. The sun in Brooklyn set over I-278.
