II. time is money & money is empty without long term planning that exploits short term tragedies, an attack strategy that squeezes the fat on the sides of wobbly countries & pumps alive oil from plump love handles, bra fat & taffy harbors. Why not tap that sweat equity you’ve put into your cumbersome text? She’s asleep & I’m a nervous wreck, she doesn’t have to count sheep or down valium into a heap of huffing skin, I stare into the hallway at something kilometers away, you said there’s a labyrinth of pennies in my forehead’s drywall & loose doubloons in the pages of this manuscript? Can it be released as easy as a shrink wrapped jewel case, its top spine sticker clinging to its petrol uncle, adhesives encoded & formatted to erode? Our amortization calculator will give you the personal results you’ve been fantasizing about, an amorally processed number formulated from buried cookies mapping your family’s clickstream & tapping your line’s peek hours, a slimy trail of regurgitated crumb that we can collect & generate what rate you deserve. Fathoms of debt smother our fatty couch. The bedroom looks like an overturned vase. Intuition heeds (burn the place). I’m thinking of a number. Or a neutral zone where we can deliberate the terms? you’re sounding shysty you’ve got to trust me. Why would I sully the hard work you’ve put into this book? The front porch is a chapter on balancing unemployment with interest rates to stave off inflation, the pantry, an appendix of union busters & flannel clad scabs, 4% of the nation shuffles about, kicking at the dirt. Pages turn like closet doors & the spine & the gutter release their sutures like a wet dog, I’m thinking of a number between 450 and 850, I’m walking to the bathroom in the dark, it would be nice to have the capital to philosophically retile the kitchen floor, to repave the living room & reupholster our air-conditioning you’re thinking, I’m doing the Duchamp Stomp in my boxers, bending the knees deep & low, pounding heels down on the wood laminate, losing balance in this black hallway. It’s a six count jitterbug closely related to swing, my palm flat on the bathroom door with both knees cocked, the balls of my feet are nine irons back-step-forward-touch-step-touch but not too loud back touch-touch-step-touch back to our room (he whispers) don’t wanna wake you < . >