My eyes grew tired of reading for content. I decided to try it anew. If the form was the content all along then what the fuck was I doing searching so hard behind the form. I needed a new structure so I invented a new way of approaching the form that was already there, like climbing into bed up the fire escape. I began to read for the font. For the sounds of words in my head. For the sounds of words as I mouthed along. But somewhere along the way I lost how those pieces fit together. A disilusão. So I grew bored and saw the houses as spackle and drywall and not for the families that I no longer imagined inside. My life and those of the friends I had still played out in the roles of audiences in the theater of books and televisions and KDWB and yet those politicians I see on the news still represent me to the extent they now do in a feedback loop of state highways and streaming video and over speculated upon housing, spangled with the thought that we're pilgrims and birth-righted both. If Obama's a foreigner, he'll survive. At worst a special on VH1. Malia will get her time in the sky. Atticked until we burst. I couldn't find a job so I found one that I don't like. Feeling obliged to something I don't want to do. Quite a first for the former word reading boy I once were.