beckett-pulp

September 9, 2024

He thrust his hand at me. I have an idea I told him once again to get out of my way. I can still see the hand coming toward me, pallid, opening and closing. As if self-propelled. I do not know what happened then. But a little later, perhaps a long time later, I found him stretched on the ground, his head in a pulp. I am sorry I cannot indicate more clearly how this result was obtained, it would have been something worth reading.

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Thought:

“I’ve always been a refusenik, beginning with refusing the suburb that I grew up in, refusing the kind of work that was provided for me as a kind of fate, refusing the war in Vietnam, refusing the beginnings of a plastic corporate culture.”

Curtis White

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