Talhard Dallas.
These gold-rind types of things.
He discarded so much of his own ontology, so much of it, vast worlds of biochemical effluvium, lifetimes, encyclopedias, all sort of various data baubles.
He parsed, and it was divided among experience and intuitions, such that there was a kind of matrix of pattern recognition that he used, a sort of peculiar I Ching made of a child's toy dough, and he began to add to a list of things he felt, were, or might be, or could be, or probably should be, real.
He paid me twenty five dollars for a banner ad on the site.
Perhaps, twas a junk data lobotomy, overwriting the old material of a life, or something, not ignoring what was there, but just using the finite space between the ears for....
well...
other stuff.
He was no longer good at trivia, but had that rugged self-assurance, having carefully selected what he inputted into his brain, of his own volition, his own tyrannical choice, such that it gave his confidence a kind of golden belt buckle, that his brain was a Redman anniversary souvenir, or a Bass Pro Shops souvenir.
Not sifting, carefully, but bent over, ass-crack shining, tossing great handfuls of old memories over his shoulders, into nothing-ness, the forgotten space behind.
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