Pynchon		Her look nowÑthis deepening arrest. has already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart: has broken and broken, that same look swung on as he drove by, thrust away into twilights of moss and crumbling colony, of skinny clouded-cylinder gas pumps, of tin moxie signs gentiam and bittersweet as the taste they were there to hustle on the weathered sides of barns, looked for how many Last Times up in the rearview mirror, all of them too far inside metal and combustion, allowing the dayÕs targets more reality than anything that might come up by surprise, by MurphyÕs Law, where salvation could be . . . Lost, again and again, past poor dam-busted and drowned Beckett, up and down the rut-brown slopes, the hayrakes rusting in the afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the mist starting to make white dashes in the air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half inch... She looked at him once, of course he still remembers, from down at the end of a lunchwagon counter, grill smoke working onto the windows patient as shoe grease gainst the rain for the plaid, hunched up leaky handful inside, off the jukebox a guide twinkle in the bleat of a trombone, a reed section, planting swing notes precisely into the groove between silent midpoint and next beat, jumping it pah (hm) pah (hm) pah so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of the counter, could feel it, feel your age delivered into a new kind of time that may have allowed you to miss the rest, graceless expectations of old men who wathed in biofocal and mucous indifference, watched as you lindy-hop into the pit by millions, as many millions as necessary . . . of course slothrop lost her and kept losing herÑit was an american requirementÑout the windows of the Greyhound, passing into beveled stonery, green and elm-folded on into a failure of perception, or, in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what these words mean), she has moved on, untroubled, too much theirs no chance of beige summer spook at her roadside . . .  Leaving Slothrop in his city-reflexes and Harvard crew soxÑboth happening to be red-ring manacles, comicbook irons (though the comic book as virtually uncirculated, found by chance near nightfall by a hopper at Birkshire Sandbank.  The name of the heroÑor beingÑwas sundial.  The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long enough to tell.  Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross the windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flow more or less sheet and vertical: a wall in constant motionÓ Ð over there was a different world, where sundial took care of business they would never understand).  Distant, yes these are pretty distant.  Sure they are.  Too much closer and it begins to hurt to bring her back.  But there is this EurydiceÑobsession, this bringing back out of . . . though how much easier just to leave her there, in fetid carbide and dead canary soups of breath and come out and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable facsimileÑÒwhy bring her back?  Why try?  ItÕs only the difference between the real boxtop and the one you draw for them.Ó  Now How can he believe that?  ItÕs what They want him to believe, but how can he?  No difference between a boxtop and its image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on that . . . but she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . . Of all her putative fathersÑMax Schlepzig and masked extras on one side of the moving film, Franz Pšleler and certain other pairs of hands busy through trouser cloth, that AlpdrŸdren Night, on the otherÑBianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind the ravening jackal, closest to you who came in blinding color, slouched alone in your own seat, never threatened along any rookwise row or diagonal all nigh, you whose interdiction from her motherÕs water-white love is absolute, you, alone, saying sure I know them, omitted, chuckling count me in, unable, thinking probably some hooker . . . she favors you, most of all.  YouÕll never get to see her.  So somebody has to tell you.


Julia		Her look now - this deepening arrestÑhas already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart: has broken and broken, that same look swung as he drove by, thrust away into twilight of moss and crumbling colony, of skinny clouded-cylinder gas pumps, of tin Moxie signs gentian and bittersweet as the taste they were there to hostle on the weathered side of barns, looked for how many last times up in the rearview mirror, all of them too far inside metal and combustion, allowing the dayÕs targets more reality than anything that might come up by surprise, by MurphyÕs Law, where salvation could be lost, again and again, past poor dam-busted and drowned Beckett, up and down the nut brown slopes, the hayrakes rustling in the afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the mist starting to make white dashes in the air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half inch . . . She looked at him once, of course he still remembers, from down at the end of a lunchwagon counter, grill smoke working onto the windows patient as shoe grease against the rain for the plaid, hunched up leaky handful inside, off the jukebox a quick twinkle in the bleat of a trombone, a reed section, planting swing notes precisely into the groove between silent midpoint and next beat, jumping it pah (hm) pah (hm) pah so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you at both ends of the counter, could feel it, feel your age delivered into a new kind of time that may have allowed you to miss the point, graceless expectations of old men who watched in bifocal and mucous indifference watched as you lindy-hop into the pit by millions, as many millions as necessary . . . of course Slothrop lost her and kept losing herÑit was an American requirementÑout the windows of the Greyhound, pussing into the beveled stonery, green and elm-folded on into a failure of perception, or, in a more sinister sense of will (you used to know what these words mean), she has moved on, untroubled, too much Theirs, no chance of a beige summer spook at her roadside . . .  	Leaving Slothrop in his city-reflexes and Harvard crew sox-both happening to be red-ring manacles, comic book irons (though the comic book was virtually uncirculated, found by chance near night fall by a hopper at a Birkshire Sand bank.  The name of the heroÑor beingÑwas sundial.  The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long enough to tell. Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross the windÓ  by which readers understood Òacross some flow, more or less, sheet and vertical: a wall in constant motionÓ Ð over there was a different world, where sundial took care of business they would never understand.) 	Distant, yes these are pretty distant.  Sure they are.  Too much closer and it begins to hurt to bring her back.  But there is this EurydiceÑobsession, this bringing back out of . . .though how much easier just to leave her there, in fetid carbide and dead canary sopus of breath and came out and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable facsimile Òwhy bring her back?  why try?  ItÕs only the difference between the real boxtop and the one you draw for them.Ó  No. How can he believe that?  Its what they want him to believe, but how can he?  No difference between a boxtop and its image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on that . . . but she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . . 	Of all her putative fathersÑMax Schlepzig and masked extras on one side of the moving film, Franz Pškler and certain other pairs of hands busy through trouser cloth, that AlpdrŸcken Night, on the otherÑBianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind the ravening jackal, closest to you who came in blinding color, slouched alone in your own seat, never threatened along any rookwise row or diagonal all night, you whose interdiction from her motherÕs water-white love is absolute, you alone, saying sure I know them, omitted, chuckling cout me in, unable, thinking probably some hooker . . . She favors you, most of all.  YouÕll never get to see her.  So somebody has to tell you. 

Thomas		Her look now this deepening arrest has already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart: has broken and broken, that same look sechaos he drove by, thrust away into twilight of moss and crumbling corony, of skinny clouded-cylinder gas pumps.  Of tin muries signs gentian and bitter sweet as the taste they were ther to hostle on me weathered sides of barns, llked for how many Last Times up in the rearview mirror all of them too far inside metal  combustion allowing, the dayÕs targets more reality than anything that might come up by surprise by murphys law where salvation could be . . . Lost, again & again past poor dam-busted and drowned Beckett, up and down the rut-brown slopes, the hay rakes rusting in the afternoon the sley purple-gray dark as schwed gum, the mist starting to make a ahize dashes in the air, aimed earthward, a quarter, a half inch . . . She looked at him once.  Of course he still remembers, from down at the end of a lunchwagon courter, grill smoke working onto the windowsÕ patient ass hoe grease against the rain for the plaid, hinched up leaky handful inside, off the juicbox a quick Twinkle in the bleat of a trombone a reed section, playing swing notes precisely into the groove between silet midpoint & next beat.  Jumping it poh (hm) pah (hm) pah so exactly in the groove that you runce it was and out felt it was behid both of you at both ends of the canyer could feel it, feel operage delivered into a new kind of time that may have allowed you to miss the rest, graceless experations of old men who wathed in bifocal and mucous indifference watched as you lindy-hop into the pity by millions as many millions necessary . . . of course Slothrop just her and kept losing herÑit was an american requirement.  At the windows of the Greyhand, passing into a failure of perception, as in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what these words mean)  She has moved on, untroubled, too much theirs, no chance of a horse summer spook at her roadside . . .  	Leaing Slothrop in his city reflexes and Harvard crew sox-both happening to be red-ring manacles, come back irons (through the comic book as virtually uncirculated,  fouy by chance near right fully by a hopper at Berkshire Sad bank.  The name of the hero or being-was sindiel. The frames never enclosed him Ðor it for long enough to tell.  Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross the windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flaw, more or less sheet and vertical a wall in constant motionÓ Ðover there was a different world where Sundial took care of business they would never understand.). 	Distant, yes these are pretty distant, sure they are.  Too much sloer, and it begins to hurt too ing her back. But the is the Eurydy-obsession, this back out of . . . though how much easier just to leae her there in the fetid carbide and have comfort enough to fix only for a reasonable facsimileÑÒwhy bring her back?  why try?  Its only the difference between the real box top and the one you draw for them.Ó  No. How can he believe that? ItsÕ what the want him to believe, but how can he?  No difference between a box top and its image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on That . . . but she must be more than image, a product, a promise to pay . . . 	of all her putative fathers-max schlep-zig and masked extras on one side of the movie film Franz Pokler and certain other pairs of hads busy through teuser cloth, that alpdŸcken Night or the other Bianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind the lacening sacker, closest to you who came on blinding color, slouche alone in your own seat, never threatened along my rooharsp row or diagnos all night  you whose interdiction from her motherÕs water.-white love is absolute and your alone saying sure I know them I omitted chuckling count me in unable thinking probably some hooker . . . she favors you, most of all, youÕll never get to see her. So, some body has to tell you.
 
Steve		Her look now - this deepening arrest has already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart.  has broken he broken that same look seeing as he drove by, thrust away into twilights of mass and crumbling along, of skinny clouded-cylinder gas pump, of tin Marie signs gentiar to bittersweet as the taste they were there to hostle on the weathered sides of barns, looked for how many.  Last Times up in the rear view mirror, all all of them too far inside metal to combustion, allowing the days targets more reality than anything that might come up by surprise, by MurphyÕs Law, where salvation could be . . . Lost again he again, past poor dam-busted and drowned to Beckett, up he down the rut-brown slopes, the hay-rakes rustling in the afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the mist slaiting to make white dashes in the air, aimed earthward and greater, a half inch . . . She looked @ him once, of course he still remembers from down at the end of a lunch wagon counter, grill smoke working into the windows patient as shoe grease against the rain for the plaid hunched up leaky, handful inside of the jukebox a quick tumble in the bleak of a trombone, a reed section playing swing notes precisely into the groove between silent midpoint and next bleat, jumping it pah (hm) pah (hm) pah, so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you @ both ends of the counter, could feel it, feel your age delivered into Distant, yes these are pretty distant.  Sure They are too much closer and it begins to hurt to bring her back.  But there is this Everydice-obsession, bringing back out at though how much easier just to leave her there, in fetide carbide and dead cnray soups of breadth and come out and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable facsimile-Òwhy bring her back?  Why try?  ItÕs only the difference between the real boxtop and its image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on that . . . but she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . .  	Of all her putative father-Max Schlepzig and masked extras on one side of the moving film, Tray Pškler and certain other pairs of hands busy through trouser cloth, that Alpducken Night, on the otherÑBianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind the scenery jackal, closest to you who came in blinding color, slouched alone in arm seat, never threatened along my rootainp row or diagonal all night, you whose interdiction from the mothery water while love is absolute, you, alone, saying sure I know them, omitted chuckling count me in, unable, thinking probably some hooker . . . she knows you most of all.  YouÕll never get to see her, so somebody has to tell you. a new kind of time that may have allowed you to miss the rest, graceless expectations of old men who watched as you lindy-hop into the pit by millions, as many millions as necessary . . . of course Slothrop lost he le kept losing herÑit was an american requirementÑ@ the windows of the Greyhound, passing into beveled scenery, green le elm folded an into a failure of perception, or in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what these words meant, she has moved on, untroubled, too much theirs, no chance of a horse summer spook @ her roadside . . .   	Leaving Slothrop in his city reflexes he Harvard crew sox-both happening to be red-ring monocles, comic book irons (through the comic book as virtually uncirculated, found by chance near nightfall by a hopper at a Birkshire sandbank.  The home of the heroÑorÑbeingÑwas sundial.  The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long enough to tell.  Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross the windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flat, more or less sheet and vertical: a wall in constant motionÓÑover there was a different world, where Sundial took care of business they would never understand.   

Fizza		Her look now - this deepening arrestÑhas already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart: has broken and broke, that same look swung as he drove by, thrust away into twilight of moss and crumbling colony, of skinny-clouded-cylinder gas pumps, of tin Moxie signs gentian and bittersweet as the taste they were there to hostle on the weathered sides of barns, looked for how many Last Times up in the rearview mirror, all of them too far inside metal and combustion, allowing the days targets more reality than anything that might come up by surprise, by MurphyÕs Law, where salvation could be . . . Lost, again and again, past poor dam-busted and drowned Beckett, up and down the nut brown slopes, the hayrakes rusting in the afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the mist starting to make white dashes in the air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half inch . . . She looked at him, once, of course he still remembers, from down at the end of a lunchwagon counter, grill smoke working on the windows patient as shoe grease against the rain for the plaid, hunched up leaky handful inside, off the jukebox a quick twinkle in the bleat of a trombone, a reed section, planting swing notes precisely into the groove between silent midpoint and next beat, jumping it pah (hm) pah (hm) pah so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind both of you at both ends of the counter, could feel it, feel your age delivered into a new kind of time that may have allowed you to miss the point, graceless expectations of old men who watched in bifocal and mucous indifference, watched as you lindy-hop into the pit by millions, as many millions as necessary . . . of course Slothrop lost her and kept losing herÑit was an American requirementÑout the windows of the Greyhound, passing into the beveled stonery, green and elm-folded on into a failure of perception, or, in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what these words mean), she has moved on, untroubled, too much Theirs, no chance of a beige summer spook at her roadside . . .   	Leaving Slothrop in his city-reflexes and Harvard crew soxÑboth happening to be red-ring manacles, comic book irons (though the comic book as virtually uncirculated, found by chance near nightfall by a hopper at a Birkshire Sandbank. The name of the heroÑor beingÑwas sundial.  The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long enough to tell. Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came across from Òacross some flow, more or less sheet and vertical: a wall in constant motionÓÑover there was a different world, where Sundial took care of business they would never understand). 	Distant, yes these are pretty distant.  Sure they are.  Too much closer and it begins to hurt to bring her back.  But there is this Eurydice-obession, this bringing back out of . . . Though how much easier just to leave her there, in fetid carbide and dead canary soups of breath and come out and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable facsimile Òwhy bring her back? why try?  ItÕs only the difference between the real box top and the one you draw for them.Ó  No. How can he believe that?  ItÕs what they want him to believe, but how can he?  No difference between a boxtop and its image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on that . . . but she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . .  	Of all her putative fathersÑMax Schlepzig and masked extras on one side of the moving film, Franz Pškler and certain other pairs of hands busy through trouser cloth, that AlpdrŸcken Night, on the otherÑBianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind the ravening jackal, closest to you who came in blinding color, slouched alone in your own seat, never threatened alone any rookwise row or diagonal all night, you whose interdiction from her motherÕs water-white love is absolute, you, alone saying sure I know them, probably some hooker . . . She favors you, most of all.  YouÕll never get to see her.  So somebody has to tell you. 

Teresa		Her look now - This deepening arrestÑhas already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart: has broken and broken, That same look swung as he drove by, Thrust away into twilights of moss and crumbling colony, of skinny clouded-cylinder gas pumps, of tin Moxie signs gentian and bittersweet as The taste They were There to hostle on The weathered sides of barns, looked for how many Last Times up in The rearview mirror, all of Them too far inside metal and combustion, allowing The dayÕs targets more reality than anything That might come up by suprise, by MurphyÕs Law, where salvation would be . . . Lost, again and again, past poor damn-buseed and drowned Beckett, up and down The wet brown slopes, The hayrakes rusting in the afternoon, The sky purple-grey, dark as chewed gum. The mist started to make white dashes in The air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half inch . . . She looked at him once of course he still remembers, from down at The end of The lunchwagon counter, grill smoke working onto The windows patient as shoe grease against The rain for the plaid, hunched up leaky handful inside, off The jukebox a quick twinkle in The bleat of a trombone, a reed section, planting swing notes precisely into The groove between silent midpoint and next beat, jumping it pah (hm), pah (hm), pah so exactly in The groove That you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of The counter could feel it, feel your age delivered into a new kind of time That may have allowed you to miss The point, graceless expectations of old men who watched in bifocal and mucous indifference, watched as you lindy-hop into The pit of millions as many millions as necessary . . . Of course Slothrop lost her and kept losing herÑit was and american requirementÑonly The windows of The greyhound, passing into The beveled stonery green and elmÑfolded into a failure of perception, or, in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what These words mean), she has moved on, untroubled, too much Theirs, no chance of beige summer spook at her roadside . . .   Leaving Slothrop in his city-reflexes and Harvard crew sox--both happening to be red-ring monacles, comic book irons (Though The comic book as virtually uncirculated, found by chance near nightfall by a hopper a Birkshire sandbank The name of The hero-or being-was sundial. The frames never endorsed himÑor itÑfor long to tell.  Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross The windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flow, more or less sheet and vertical: a wall in constant motionÓÑover There was a different world, where Sundial took care of business They would never understand). 	Distant, yes These are pretty distant.  Sure they are.  Too much closer and it begins to hurt to bring her back.  But There is This EurydiceÑobsession, This bringing back on of . . . Though how much easier just to leave her There, in fetid cowhide and dead canary soups and come on and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable facsimile Òwhy bring her back?  Why try?  Its only The difference between The real boxtop and The one you draw for Them.Ó  No. How can he believe That?  No difference between boxtop and its image, all right. Their whole economyÕs based on That . . . but she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . .  	Of all her putative fathersÑMax Schlepzig and mashed extras on one side of The moving film, Franz Pškler and certain other pairs of hands busy Through trouser cloth, That AlpolnŸcken Night, on The otherÑBianca is closest, this last possible movement below decks have bhind The ravening jackel, closest to you who came in blinding color, slouched alone in your own seat, never Threatened along any rookwise row or diagonal all night, you whose inderdiction from her mothers waterÑwhite love is absolute, you, alone, saying sure I know Them, omitted, chuckling count me in, unable, Thinking probably some hooker . . . she favors you, most of all. YouÕll never get to see her. So somebody has to tell you. 

Arya		Her look now - this deepening arrest has already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart: has broken & broken, that same look seeing as he drove by, thrust away into twilight by mass & crumbling colony, of skusning clouded-cylinder gas pumps, of the movie signs gentian & bittersweet as the taste they were there to hostle on the weathered sides of barns, looked for how many costumes up in the rear view mirror, all of them too far inside metal and combustion, allowing the dayÕs targets were reality than anything that might come by surprise, by MurphyÕs Law, where salvation could be . . . lost, again & again, past poor dam-busted and drowned Beckett, up & down the rut-brown slopoes, the hay rakes rusting in the afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the mist starting to make ahize dashes in the air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half-inch . . . She looked at him once, of course he still remembers, from down at the end of a lunch wagon counter, grill smoke working onto the windows patient as shoe grease against the rain for the placid, linched up leaky handful inside, off the juicebox a quick twinkle in the bleat of a trombone, a reed section, playing notes precisely into the groove between silent mid-point & next beat, jumping it path (turn) path (turn) path so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of the counter could feel it, feel operage delivered into a new kind of time that may have allowed you to miss the rest, graceless expectations of old men who watched in biblical & mucous indifference, watched as you lindy-hop into the pit by millions, or many millions as necessary . . . of course Slothrop lost her & kept losing herÑit was an american requirementÑat the windows of greyhound, passing into bevolved stonery, green & elmÑfolded on into a failure of perception or, in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what these words mean), she has moved on, untroubled, too much theirs, no chance of a horse mummer spook at her roadside . . .  Leaving Slothrop in his city reflexes and Harvard crew sox-both happening to be red-ring monocles, come back iyons (though the comic book is virtually incurculated, found by chance near nightfall by a hopper at a Birkshire sand bank.  The name of the heroÑor beingÑwas sundial.  The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long enough to tell.  Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross the windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flaw, more or less sheet & vertical a wall in constant motionÓÑover there was a different world, where sundial took care of business they would never understand.)  Distant, yes these are pretty distant.  Sure they are.  Too much closer, and it begins to hurt to bring her back.  But there is this everydyo-obession, this bringing back out of  . . . though how much easier just to leave her there in fetide carbide and dead canary saps of breath and came out and have courfat enough to try only for a reasonable facsimileÑÒwhy bring her back?  Why try?  Its only the difference between the real box-top & the one you arare for them.Ó  No.  How can he believe that?  ItÕs what they want him to believe, but how can he?  No difference between a boxtop & its image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on that . . . but she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . .   Of all her putative fathersÑMax Schlepzig & marked extras on one side of the moving film, Franz Pšlker & certain other pairs of hands busy through treuser doth, that alp drŸken night, on the otherÑBianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind the lacening jackel, closest to you who came on blinding color, slouched alone in your own seat, never threatened along my rookarsp row or diagonal all night, you whose interdiction from her motherÕs waterÑwhite love is absolute & youÕre alone saying sure I know them  I omitted chuckling count me in, unable, thinking probably some hooker . . . she favors you, most of all.  youÕll never get to see her. So, somebody has to tell you. 

Urvi		Her look nowÑThis deepening arrestÑhas already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart: has broken and broken, That same look swung as he drove by, Thrust away into twilights of moss and crumbling colony, of skinny clouded Ðcylinder gas pumps, of tin Moxie signs gentian and bittersweet as The taste They were Three to hostle on The weathered sides of barns.  Looked for how many Last Times up in The near view under, all of them too far inside metal and combustion, allowing The days targets more reality Than anything That might come up by surprise, by MurphyÕs Law, where saheation could be . . . Lost, again and again, past poor dam-busted and drowned Beckett, up and down The slay purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, The mist started to make white dashes in The air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half inch . . . She looked at him once of course he still remembers, from down at the end of The lunchwagon counter, grill smoke working onto The windows patient as shore grease against The rain for the plaid, hunched up Leacky handful inside, off The jukebox a quick twinkle in The bleat of trombone, a reed section, planting swing notes precisely into The groove between silent midpoint and next beat, jumping it pah (hm) pah (hm) pah so exactly in the groove That you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of The counter could feel it, feel your age delivered into a new kind of time That many have allowed you to miss The point, graceless expectations of old men who watched in bifocal and mucous indifference, watched as you lindy-hop into The pit of millions as many millions as necessary . . . Of course Slothrop lost her and kept losing herÑit was and american requirementÑor the window of The grey hound, passing into The beveled stoney green and elm-folded on into a failure of perception, or, in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what These words mean), she has moved on, untroubled, too much Theirs, no change of beige summer spook a her roadside . . .  	Learning Slothrop in his city-reflexes and Harvard crew soxÑboth happening to be red-wing mamades, comicbook irons (Through The comic book as virtually uncirculated, found by chance near a mightfall by a hopper a Birkshire Sandbank The name of The heroÑor beingÑwas sundial. The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long to tell. 	Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross The windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flaw, more or less sheet and vertical: a wall in constant motionÓÑever There was a different world, where Sundial took care of business They would never understand). 	Distant, yes These are pretty distant.  Sure They are.  Too much closer and it begins to hunt to bring her back.  But There is This Euridyze-obsession, This bringing back on of . . .Though how much easier just to leave her There, in fetid carbide and dead canary soups of breath and come on and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable facsimile Òwhy bring her back?  Why try?  Its only the difference between The real boxtop and The one you draw for them.Ó  No, How can he believe that?  ItÕs what They want him to believe, but how can he?  No difference between boxtop and its image, all right, Their whole economyÕs based on That . . . but she must be more than image, a product, a promise to pay . . .  	Of all her putative fathersÑMax Schlepzig and masked extras on one side of the moving film, Franz Pškler and certain other pairs of hands busy Through transfer cloth, That AlpdrŸcken Night, on the otherÑBianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind The ravening jackel, closest to you who came in blinding color, slouched alone in your own seat, never Threatened along any reotwise now or diagaonal all night, you whose interdiction from her mothers waterÑwhite love is absolute, you, alone, saying sure I know Them, omitted, chuckling count me in, unable Thinking probably some hooker . . . She favors you, most of all. YouÕll never get to see her. So somebody has to tell you. 

WoeiJyh		Her look nowÑthis deepening assert has already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart: has broken and broken, that same look seeing as he drove by, thrust away into twilight of mass and crumbling colony, of skumg clouded-cylinder gas pumps, of thin movie signs gentian and bittersweet as the taste they were there to hortle on the weathered sides of barns, looked for how many last times up in the rear view mirror, all of them too far include metal and comburtion, allowing the dayÕs targets were reality than anything that might come up by surprise, by MurphyÕs Lare, where salvation could be . . . lost, again and again, part poor dam-burted and drowned Beckett, up and down the rut-brown sloeps, the hay rakes rurting in the afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the mist starting to make above darkes in the air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half inch . . .She looked at him once, of course he still remembers, from down at the end of a lunch wagon counter, grill smoke working onto the window patient as shoe grease against the rain for the plaid, hinched up leaky handful inside off the juicebox a quick twinkle in the bleat of a trombone, a reed section, playing mixing notes precisely into the groove between silent mid point and next beat, jumping it pah (hm) pah (hm) pah so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of the cauter could feel it, feel operage delivered into a new kind of time that may have allowed you to win the rest, graceless expectations of old men who watched in bibcal and mucous indifference, watched as you lindy-hop into the pit by millions, as many millions as necessary . . . of course slothrop lost her and kept losing herÑit was an american requirementÑat the windows of the Grey hand, passing into bevolved stonery, green and elm-holded on into a failure of perception or, is a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what there words mean).  She has moved on, untroubled, to much theirs, no chance of a horse mummer spook at her roadside . . . 	Leaving Slanthrop in his city reflexes and Harvard crew soxÑboth happening to be red-ring monocles, come back yous (though the comic book as virtually uncirculated, found by change near might fall by a hopper at a Birkshire sand hauk.  The name of the heroÑor beingÑwas sundial. The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long enough to tell.  Sundial, flarking in, flarking out again came from Òacross the windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flaw, more or less sheet and vertical a wall in constant motionÓÑover there was a different world, where Sundial took care of burriness they would never understand.). 	Distant, yes there are pretty distant. Sure they are.  Too much closer, and it begins to hurt to bring her back.  But there is this Everydyo-obsession, this bringing back out of . . . though how much easier surt to leave her there in fetide carbide and dead canary raps of breath and came out and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable farsimcleÑÒwhy bring her back? why try?  ItÕs only the differance between the real box top an dthe on you araw for them.Ó  No.  How can he believe that?  ItÕs what they want him to believe, but how can he?  No difference between a box top and its image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on that  . . . but she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . .  	Of all her putatime fathersÑMax Schlepzig and marked extras on the ride of the moving film, Franz Pškler and certain other pairs of hands busy through treuser cloth, that alpdrŸcken night, on the otherÑBianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind the lacening jackel, closest to you who came on blinding color, clouced alone in your own seat, never threatened along my rockers prow or diagonal all night. You whose interdiction from her motherÕs waterÑwhite love is absolute and youÕre alone saying sure I know them I omitted chuckling count me in, usable, thinking probably some hooker . . . she favor, you, most of all. YouÕll never get to me her.  So, somebody has to tell you. 

Mike		Her look nowÑthis deepening arrest has already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart; has broken, & broken, that same look seeing as he drove by, thrusst away into twilights of moss and crumbling along, of skinny clouded-cylinder gas pumps, of tin Marie signs gentry and bittersweet as the taste they were there to hostle on the weathered sides of barns, locked for how many.  Fast times up in the rear view mirror, all all of them too far inside me tul and combustion, allowing the days targets more reality than anything that might come up by surprise, by MurphyÕs law, where salvation could be . . . Lost, again & again, past poor dam-busted and drowned Beckett, up & down the nut-brown slopes the hay-rakes rustling in the afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the mist starting to make white dashes in the air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half inch . . . She looked at him once, of course he still remembers, from down at the end of a lunchwagon counter, grill smoke morphing into the windows, patient as she greases against the rain for the plaid, hunched up leaky, handful inside, off the juke how a quick twinkle in the blast of a trombone, a reed section, playing swing notes precisely into the groove between silent midpoint & next bleat, jumping it pah (hm), pah (hm), pah, so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of the counter, could feel it, feel your age delivered into.  	Distant, yes these are pretty distant.  Sure they are much closer and it begins to hurt to bring her back. But there is this Eerydice-ples ession, bringing back out at . . . though how much easier just to leave her there, in fetid carbide & dead canary soups of breadth and came out and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable facsimileÑÒwhy bring her back?  why try?  ItÕs only the difference between the real boxtop & itÕs image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on that . . . But she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . .   	Of all her putative fathersÑMax Schlopy and masked extras on one side of the moving film.  Franz Pickler & certain other pairs of hands busy through trouser cloth that Alpdrunken Night, on the otherÑBianaca is Closest, this lase possible moment below decks here behind the scenery jackal, closest to you who came in blinding color, slouched alone in youre aru seat, never threatened along my rookainp rav or diagonal all night, you whose interdiction from the motherÕs water white love is absolute, you, alone, saying sure I know them, omitted chuckling count me in unable, thinking probably some hooker . . . She favors you most of all, YouÕll never get to see her, so somebody has to tell you.  	A new kind of time that may have allowed you to miss the rest, graceless expectations of old men who watched in bifocal & mucous indifference, watch as you lindy-hop into the pit by millions, as many millions as necessary . . . of course Slothrop lost he & kept losing herÑit was an American requirement--@ the windows of the greyhound, passing into leveled scenery, green & elm folded into a failure of perception, or in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what these words meant, she has moved on, untroubled, too much theirs, no chances of a horse summer spook at her roadside.  	Leaving Slothrop in his city reflexes & Harvard crew soxÑboth happening to be red-ning monocles comic book ivory (though the comic book as virtually uncirculated, found by chance near nightfall by a hopper at a Birkshire sand bank.  The home of the heroÑor beongÑwas sundial, The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long enough to tell. Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross the windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flat, more or less sheet & vertical, a wall in constant motionÓÑover these there was a different world, where sundial took care of business they would never understand. 

Sarah		Her look nowÑthis deepening arrest has already broken SlothropÕs seeing heart; has broken and broken, that same look seeing as he drove by, thrust away into twilights of moss and crumbling along, of skinny clouded-cylinder gas pumps of tin Marie signs gentry and bittersweet as the taste they were there to hostle on the weathered sides of barns, locked for how many.  Last times up in the rear view mirror, all all of them too far inside metal and combustion, allowing the days targets more reality than anything that might come up by surprise, by MurphyÕs Law, where salvation could be . . . Lost, again and again, past poor dam-busted and drowned to Beckett, up and down the nut-brown slopes the hay-rakes rustling in the afternoon, the sky purple-gray, dark as chewed gum, the mist starting to make white dashes in the air, aimed earthward a quarter, a half inch . . . She looked at him once, of course he still remembers, from down at the end of a lunchwagon counter, grill smoke morphing into the windows patient as she greases against the rain for the plaid, hunched up leaky, handful inside, off the jukebox a quick twinkle in the blast of a trombone, a reed section, playing swing notes precisely into the groove between silent midpoint and next bleat, jumping it pah (hm), pah (hm), pah / so exactly in the groove that you knew it was ahead but felt it was behind, both of you, at both ends of the counter, could feel it, feel your age delivered into  	Distant, yes these are pretty distant.  Sure they are too much closer and it begins to hurt to bring her back.  But there is this Eurydice-plesession, bringing back out at . . . though how much easier just to leave her there, in fetid carbide and dead canary soups of breadth and came out and have comfort enough to try only for a reasonable facsimileÑwhy bring her back?  why try?  ItÕs only the difference between the real boxtop and itÕs image, all right, their whole economyÕs based on that . . . but she must be more than an image, a product, a promise to pay . . .   	Of all her putative fathersÑMax Schlopy and masked extras on one side of the moving film, Fraz Pickler and certain other pains of hands busy through trouser cloth that Alpdrunker Night, on the other Bianca is closest, this last possible moment below decks here behind scenery jackal, closest to you who came in blinding color, slouched alone in youre aru seat, never threatened along my rookainp rav or diagonal all night, you whose interdiction from the motherÕs water white love is absolute, you, alone, saying sure I know them, omitted chuckling count me in unable, thinking probably some hooker . . .she favors you most of all.  YouÕll never get to see her, so somebody has to tell you.  	A new kind of time that may have allowed you to miss the rest, graceless expectations of old men who watched in bifocal and mucous indifference, watched as you lindy-hop into the pit by millions, as many millions as necessary . . . of course Slothrop lost and kept losing herÑit was an American requirementÑat the windows of the Greyhound, passing into leveled scenery, green and elm folded on into a failure of perception, or in a more sinister sense, of will (you used to know what these words meant, she has moved on, untroubled, too much theirs, no chances of a horse summer spook at her roadside . . .   	Leaving Slothrop in his city reflexes and Harvard crew soxÑboth happening to be red-ring monocles comic book ivory (though the comic book as virtually uncirculated, found by chance near nightfall by a hopper at a Birkshire Sandbank. The home of the heroÑor beingÑwas sundial.  The frames never enclosed himÑor itÑfor long enough to tell.  Sundial, flashing in, flashing out again came from Òacross the windÓ by which readers understood Òacross some flat, more or less sheet and vertical.  A wall in constant motionÓÑover these was a different world where sundial took care of business they would never understand.