the talky badinage-based humor of his circle of clowns
The central city is a jagged collage of collonades
Another call flashed on my phone. I glanced at the bills on my table. I didn’t recognize the phone number but guessed it was my student loan company, a debt collection company, or the prerecorded voice of the woman who called me nine times each day from one of my credit cards.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
I blubbered a bit. Just out of one eye, which had stuff coming out of it anyway, because of Fish Rot.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Your evals are OK. We don’t care much what students say around here. They can suck it.”
I fel…
Peter! I see you. Through the thin walls of my ground-floor studio, through glazed windows covered on the outside with steel lattice to keep out burglars and birds, I see you emerging onto the front lawn on a fresh spring morning in Massachusetts, as a robin pecks for worms and a squirrel scampers …
