After the Angelectomy

And where my organ of veneration should be— wormwood and gall. Grudge sliver. Wailbone, iron, bitters. I mean to say the miniature waterfalls have all dried up in this miniature place where day is duty cubed, time is time on task and every mind optimized for compliance. Time to delint my black denim traveling stuff. The flourescent major highlighter has dimmed to minor. I'm so dying I wrote when I meant to write so tired. And when I sleep I dream only that I'm sleeping. Please see my black stuff's dusted off. Night has no dilution anxieties, but only the infinites are happy: Math. Time. Everything happy goes to many decimal places while flesh passes through gradations of glory. I visualized it, the nurse said of the bedsore. Everything exists at the courtesy of everything else. Please see that my grave is kept clean. Beloveds, finite things in which the infinite endangered itself, excarnate to memory and the divine substance has limited liability. You're kind, I tell the infinite. Too kind.