Fiction. From THE BOOK OF DURING: "In every a room, but could I describe it, ride around its edges, never quite pushing through the perimeter wherein we spent so many fucking afternoons. Terrible picture of all the words waiting relentlessly outside. What after all is the activity of telling beyond the fate of act? A feeling as if I had only heard about the teeming presence of my own life. And is your fucking a telling? Everywhere wandered around...