I take coffee with my copy of Slaughterhouse-Five beside me. I flip through the book wondering where in the plot this page-turning will land me. I plan to read the first passage I see, suspecting that it will shed light on the present moment. I treat Kurt Vonnegut’s novel like the I Ching.

Ancient wood desk, dark wood paneling, my father’s office in darkness. Life-light burnt out, hard to read. Books with leather binding, high to the ceiling. Bookmarks of newspaper clippings & torn pages of poetry buried.

an analog understanding of a shattered memory; re: a failing reality from: 9p99a4@.telecommunications

So great to hear from you, (redacted)!

Respectfully, I must decline all possible opportunities for the time being,