Wednesday, December 30, 2009


Jimmy plays a game like cricket in the field with a jagged tree bit and rocks and in many ways, Jimmy is me and the tree bit is you, and I use you to propel concentrated chunks of past among sexy blades of grass. If this is true of the very cores of us, this narrative of Jimmy/Morrison's Beloved (the tree)/Morrison (the rock), then how will we eat our eggs in the morning knowing we might never hatch any of our own?