The talk we had between us is etched upon my brain. Conversing is like horse-shoes played while waiting for a bus, say in southeastern Oklahoma or time spent watching paint dry or visiting Algiers. Fine. I’ll take my boots and latch on to a new idea, one that clouds my room. Ramma-lamma-ding-dong. Anyway, the truth is, you tear me up with laughter. I laugh until I get it right. The door stretches out forever, as we’ll be gone into the ovoid horizon with Agonistes. Can you blame me? I started out at the end. But don’t get me wrong, my friend, no, I blame you not at all. For I am an old, disheveled crustacean, and my days are ordered and posted in effigy. For if not you, the chances are that I would take a powder and wind up like the devil or Dr. Frankenstein, planning for the end of days and thinking, Ain’t that fine? Dig that sonic asylum, that newfangling death star, that acrimonious battey on yon senses, yonder lies the mizzenmast of cornucopia, of Fellini excess and antipodean profundity. But you and I, we’ve been through that and know it isn’t true. Yes, we’re like a tenor solo that makes me think of Oklahoma.