Franny Had Been Assigned The Fourth Elegy
In my set, at least, the way it worked was that you drove around certain likely looking streets, forested coves,* and downtown loftways. Often you would find those professing to surf or aspiring to thrash deathcore; sometimes middle managers drooped from the weight of a mid-serveconomy. You could brush with fame (I was preliminarily vetted by the self-appointed handler of two transients who had written a book about watching movies fume); chance did not altogether matter. You regained your touch; you wore raincoats in winter to househosted shows of those who did accept the deathcore challenge. (I stopped once for Death, though it was on Domino’s dime.**) A ghastly trident, a tame python in denuded myrtle, the t-shirt marked “Camus.” A side-scrolling shooter that overwrote the bootlog, making the offbrand deskplop quarterless and without charm.
I want to write some vignettes, perhaps more disjointed than what’s above, about some undergraduate observations, because that sort of thing is too rarely done. We’ll see how it goes.
*“Loblolly Lulls,” “Oaken Hives,” “Azalea Grafts.” That sort of thing. **They asked me to ferry them across a parking lot to a Shoney’s. Death walks not in summer.