I finish the junk and lie down on the bed..The creak of my kitchen door in the draught speaks of "Cain's Book" by Alex Trocchi...I imagine its sound to be the stretching of ropes and the shrinking and expanding of the boards that form the inverted carapace of my tugboats hull, moored in the oily harbours of N.Y.C.
I can see why Sterling Morrison was drawn to that urbane, yet solitary existence.
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