It was some time ago that Mr. Malone approached me about making some contributions to his paper, aptly named, “The Rock.” At our first meeting, the invitation took on the tone of those casual interludes we all stubbornly confront on our way to class, a meal or, more pressingly, a drink. After many such occasions he found me once more, though, I must say, this time I had just finished my most recent drink and finding the bitterness too great to share alone, I consented. What becomes of this article, segment or God terribly willing section is wedded to my own mind. Mr. Malone indeed has given me the freedom and the platform though this great project oh his to write, but any art that is not constituted by those two inextricable characteristics is doomed by those who withhold them. Thank you Mr. Malone.
As for what you read… Well, “The unexamined life is not worth living”
A lost earring… Be it an iron egg, a seashell, or a precious pearl, how is it possible to feign innocence in the face of such a thing? In its intimacy it is rivaled only by he who “is closer to you than the vein of your neck.” Yet as a lifeless remember of the noise debauchery it drowns out all visions of the soft jaw with which it danced its pendulum movements. Chancing to be lost her as mere poor luck, just as you chanced to find it here. Bathrooms, bedrooms, shirt pockets. Such an event is too much for a man; one who is ever questing to break the nature of femininity. It makes him pause and question things of unseen ambition. Wishes yet thought, unseeing corrupted beauty. Floating dreams looking for shores.