The Somnambule's Crime
Opinion
Beethoven and Paulette Goddard made from day-old brioches are irretrievably lost in the heart of Europe with a handful of xenophobic bicyclers apologetically opening and closing their panniers with the rise and fall of wind and sun. There is a van rolling by selling Italian ice creams. A lace-like estuary of ghosts appear in their handwriting or they are clouds rising from the brioches. Shakespeare is damp to the touch and commercial while Goethe owns a greenhouse near a post hole. Chekov is the mailman carting flowers up to a reporter’s four-story apartment and Breton owns a teakwood radio and considers it decadent but conversationally sound. There is still a dead lamb in Conrad’s open mouth and Cervantes is now read primarily by East coast adulterers and barge crows. Hitler puts on a pink tuxedo and blends right in. It’s all your fault.