Pigeon in main square. Foot bound by thread dug in flesh, toes curled into useless stump. 
More seen less understood. Understand that? Short sentences. Less strain on imagination. 
Death? Other things. Sex, for example. Fucking, intercourse, discourse. Dialectic 
penetration. To the point. Coherence. That is a lie. So is that. Truth somewhere between 
lies. Never, perhaps, said something so false, so true. In end maybe beginning, at least 
middle, a start, if not beginning. End, though, no hope ending up there. Nor latter part of 
middle closer to end than former, than beginning for that matter. All points equidistant, 
that is equally far away, indeed infinitely far. Every stop, every page brings nothing 
closer, nothing farther, so may as well be still. Not distressing. Not new. Hidden, at times, 
by distractions, which do good in sense men say things do good. In sense women say 
things do good. What difference between sense men say things do good and sense women 
say things do good, in the end? Conjecture, for who knows, save those at the end, how 
things are, in the end? Not even them, those in a place rarely understand it, even then 
only by coincidence. But let us revel in misunderstanding before time comes to move in, 
or on, or out. Yes, let us.