This is abstract because a line break’s a split end where lunge discovers its lurch already furnished. It has a jokey-psychedelic cover to which was affixed a pebble painted blue (it was light—maybe pumice or just foam plastic) which fell off when I touched it. It was upon this rosy toy that the word “oolite” now fixed itself, like a label on the surface of a red moon, and although the Jobber’s stony island was hidden from their eyes at that spot, the tutor had the sensation that the whole of Portland, with all its people and all their passions, was no more solid than this airy, floating, ephemeral balloon. And today Dirk and I learned from Wikipedia that “There is no such thing as ‘Chocula lore.’” All we have to rest on are jeans-ad certainties. And lots of thimbleberry in bloom. For she did bloom, if blandly, under their bland parentage, like some great soft whitish flower topping a low strict herm of a cactus along some desert freeway.
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