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There are manila envelopes everywhere. None of them have little sticky notes in them, like the professor implied he would like, with thoughts incomplete scribbled hastily and stuck as if to free up mental space for more conjuring. The envelopes are filled, one way or another, with thoughts. Some of them worth keeping around others filled with embarrassing cliches which the students who write nothing but cliche will say are cliche. At no point is it acceptable in this house for the inverse hypocrisy of the blind teaching the visually elite, both aesthetically and functionally, how to write. Bastards should be accountants, the good it will do them. Look. There they are all over the floor, under the rug, under the leg of the coffee table, under the lamp with the discarded shade, under the refrigerator, in the refrigerator, between the seat and lid of the toilet. It’s a mad house. All full of the intricacies of daily life which are so often overlooked. It’s devastating how beautiful it all is. The dog is whining because she is in trouble. To the mud room with her. Bad and Behavior copulated to birth the slimy frame of abject discipline. This is for your own good. She has an envelope in her mouth with sheaves of paper, sheaves, sliding all over the floor. She’s buried in biting, life-changing, truly relevant, contemporary work. That’ll teach her. She whines so loudly. No sleeping in this house. Only work and dreams and silly incidentals like sexuality, careers, disease, gasoline, matches, frozen pizza, designer duvets, affordable swiss furniture and memory. Addendum. Memory must be stricken from the list as incidentals are employed via memory and can therefore not be incidental as that would cause a logical meltdown at which point we would be forced to grow our own food and long hand every bit of mathematics. There is no room for all the abaci with these godforsaken envelopes covering every square inch of usable space for the love of God.

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