Assorted Cakes . . . . . . . . . . . 3.00

"What dreames may come, When we haue shufflel'd off this mortall coile, Must giue vs pawse." - Billy

The devil is in the details. The thread loose on a new shirt, the seams of the insides of your pocket. The pocks on porcelain, the twin egg yolks and the red bits in the tempura. The font, the pitch, the bends, the tint, the tone, the temperature of the marble, the color of the parchment. The blinking of the cursor. The taste in your mouth. The eyelashes in your eyes. The dirt on the floor. The serial numbers on your money, and all the fingers that have touched it. The grooves in your lips. The misspoken words. The counted breaths.

He would study everything surrounding the human but not the human. The architecture that we moved in was more vocal than the people speaking in it. The echoes off of the walls became more relevant than the conversations, they became an edificial cut-up of tragicomic proportions. They gave him drugs to quiet the rumination, the long parades of associations that would whoop it up through the cerebral soup with ticker tapes and enormous digital displays.

He played with the idea to create a sort of social sanometer in the form of a human and with visual indicators of its health and satisfaction and install it in Times Square, drawing data from the U.N. or independent voices. There would be a great mirror, a reflection that some vagabond toting a small mountain of aluminum or copper or magical alloys through that unsane place would fall into. Times Square is expensive.

When asked before, "What do you want?" he replied, "A window on a busy street." He had that. It grew tiresome looking down on people's hats and heads and the buses and the cars and the taxis and the trash and the empty lots and the storefronts through iron fire escapes. Finding himself lying on his back on the floor and looking through the window up at the color of the sky, he would make extreme efforts to turn that blue into a magical respite, a Shangri-La on the mountains of his eyes, the shadow of the veritable.

So let us pick up our pens and open our eyes. We know the colors of the sky and we know.