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I never remind myself of myself so much as when I am who I am. Last year I was too solid a ghost. Star eyed monster rabbit, I studied all the books of the heavy heavens. Walking and talking in this land or that. Cigarettes fell from my drooping lips and descended mightily to the virtual scientological scat-singer-ological landing strip of Mama Erde. But nothing was known by the shadows of the moomoomoomoon.

Quick, there's only quick quickening. The sky is very blackackackackack when one is, quote, "smashed to pieces in the still of the night," unquote, as it says in big block letters painted on the side of one of Vienna's massive cement flak towers left over from World War Second. The fractal process of creation and decay has led to the place's being transformed, -literated, and -mogrified into what it is plus something more. As it stands—and it does stand—though it stands for so much more, and some can't stand it at all, it is a hugungous gray square tower of cement with two-meter-thick walls, and a small, cramped aquarium featuring tropical fish, and (down in the basement, a place I've never been tempted to visit) a torture museum, um, um, and outside one wall is a climbing wall, with spandexed humanoids spidering up it coolly, and also on the inside near the aquarium they have made a rainforest of all things (you find rainforests in the damnedest places these days), and the latest thing I hear is a cafe on the roof from which you can sip caffeine and gaze out contentedly on all the brutality that the asthetic world has to offer, with its silently howling silvery moonrises and its bloody sunsets so redolent of Odilon Redon. And on and on, and on and off, 'til this, that, and the other thing are covered by the snowdrifts of yesteryear.