Thunder, oh thunder please stop! I want to announce why that napkin fold is origami cosmic and contains the formula for a Pulitzer. The tab must be paid to allow the usage of poetics and prose devices like bathos, or the tab must be made to create the indent at the beginning of the highly alliterated text. Anything is game to keep our frozen fingers thawed. I roll like that. It is close to the fact that writers are mostly very busy unemployed people. Twenty-eight years later, when I am cold and non-descript (smile here), I will mutter and mumble when we talk of illusionary semblances and ideological allusions long ago written and forgotten. Then, and only then, I will think to wear the cloak of an old pen, a tattered plume, an emptied ink well. My hat will be made of old newspapers headlined, Stetson. My shoes, demurely made of snake skin and juju, will be lined with epitaphs and eulogies. It will be posted on all the covers of books about old writers. It will describe in the blurb what I wanted and how I walked wherever the need decided, which would be where literature let me go. If horses show up, saddle up! If I should perchance become you, whichever trail you mosey along, I hope we do not end up the same. With so many of my children strewn like shredded mimeograph paper about my well worn cowhide boots, I will indelibly raise them without instructions. They can read my entire life work in manuscript form, unpublished.