i left my typewriter in new jersey as if some bloodied murder weapon trying to hide the crimes or forget the posturing of the scene of all my passion and pathos for these seven quite odd years where manhood came and with it the twisting torture of passion's pain distressed and then daring darling and then distressing messing with alternatives though the people traded places sliding parade-like suddenly my massive wooden desk i called the aircraft carrier (covered with unfinished scripts, snatches of poems, and doctors' bills) half my soul (it seems) was spilled poured and splattered into these gold, black, red walls onto the dusty floor filled with cat hair, beard hair, auburn hair too precious to sweep away no, it was not a castle or a page from Architecture Digest but it gave me all I ever needed to become an artist they say we become completely new every seven years we'll see i suppose we will see i left my typewriter in new jersey i guess i'll need to return for it