S. wants her son to be me. She has decided that she would most like her son to be me. And what am I? I am limited, certainly. Or I am a tree--a linden. I have been enclosed by two-by-fours. A woman had asked me to stand as if for a portrait, but, instead of cribbing my likeness, she had built a construction of two-by-fours about me. Good wood. Animation through symbiosis. Re-animation through symbiosis. Through hosting that which you wouldn't mind sucking on your body. I had been placed on a stretcher, but it became a cot at the back of a room. There I lay, forgotten. I am on a cot forgotten. Parts of her were iguanoid, macaquish. She was a pastiche of macaque but overall pleasant. Pleasing. She lay where the waves his the shore. She lay on her stomach and allowed the waves to do as they pleased. She started out perpendicular to the waves, but then they made her parallel. And then they pulled her out and she had sand in the seat of her suit. It hung there. And children get sand in their suits, but, for whatever reason, do not have the dexterity of patience to get it all out. Their little hands and fingers look dexterous, but they are not. These children are not quite used enough to extrication. Later, they'll get it. They are simply young--say 23 or 25. You're just young. I was once young. So lurid, at the seashore. What a scene.

Superabundant. A nimrod, a nixon. The water in the Styx was run through a machine, through some charcoal and sand. The boy was a monger, a gripper. He became a dope. I have been a dope.