"Little or no interest." Of course! It's not surprising the economy being what it is. It's a buyer's market. Outside the midday window floats yesterday's afternoon, lagging as always behind the ticker tape parade, screaming requests for me to make the tides rise, jealous Neptune in full spate spiting Mars for his curious spotlight. Inside the window hangs a portrait of a barnacle and when the trains run the walls rattle and the barnacle shakes as if it clung to the hull of beaching caravel. Below the portrait there is a chair I'm attached to that's been stuck in this corner for six sessile years since I sat it here and boarded the door shut. I stay in place and feed in suspension on the sellers and their opinions. Then on the pursed lips of a pessimist I type a cemetery and watch as he blows the paper boat aflame out to sea, spectators gathering around by the hundreds to watch it sink.