Once there was a duck. A duck too sensitive for other ducks. A dancing duck too shy to dance. A useless duck. A useless and anonymous duck, shy and quintessent.
Against the fabric of this portrait of a duck, let's place a gun, a sedan, and music playing. We drove through the night and into the next day; like a surgeon's knife we found the basis of things, a tumor hopelessly spawning.
Life is like a series of columns. Columnar thought, politics, accomplishments. The columns are not infinite but broken off, as if there had once been a roof. The background is a quiet swirl, far off, of steel rain and impenetrable mist. "That is where you will find God" - said the duck - "It is where he found me."
Everything is like a steaming holiday pie. Pies are the short leaves of a sapling we are not quite certain is there yet. Why all this decisioning? Who asked us to make such judgments?
Choice lies before me like a sea of discarded playing cards, their suits revealed as if that matters. But I choose the duck. The duck. The. Duck.
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