It’s possible to feel awful anywhere. You can be above a harbor, the water blue, the sky 
blue, one boat streaming in, a little generic warm wind, birds, etc. and think, if I only focus for a 
minute, do the numbers, I can average myself at least abject.
	You make up formulas: your income   +   your living situation   +   that blue weather + 
the mute pleasure of that lone boat and its white wake divided by the cumulative suffering delivered 
by gunpowder x the world’s current population x that number’s exponential expansion minus 
every molecule of mud blown skyward, and you enter, in your sought-for negative number, an 
abjection so deep you stand up & search the nearest dark drawer for a badge to turn in.
	After a few hours you pull yourself up, out, venture into the fading light, decide to go to a 
club, careful not to consider the connotations of club, and you sit down, order a drink, steering 
your thoughts delicately, carefully not considering the implications of drink, and the music 
begins, stops, begins again, and a beautiful woman beside you spins on her barstool & says, Do 
you like the music?
	And you weep into your hands just a little moment, recover, answer: Do I like the music? 
This contra-bass? This bandoneón? I’m wondering only how you deserve your skin, what I did to 
deserve the sight of this candlelight on your face, what your lips did to deserve their fullness, 
what we’re doing here listening to tango when the rest of the world...
	You’ve said enough, she says. Come with me & let’s be miserable together—we’ll build a 
house called Casa de Ambivalence, we’ll wrap our bodies around each other, I promise to cry 
out in pain....