Once upon a time, there was a man named Birdy, older then than now, whose job was to remind a text on memory of where it had been and why it had missed itself there, as if he were a third-person argument between a first and a second person who tried to keep appointments, but whose lives, in the event, were compromised by one emergency after another, so that one or the other always got stuck waiting, picking up the check, taking the wrong bus home.
"Otherwise," he said, coming to his senses already in an anaphoric mood on the curled linoleum floor, decorated in a grease-beclouded floral pattern, of a dimly familiar kitchenette, talking to no one in particular, or else an offstage presence stuck in an abandoned episode, "you'd simply live the singer-songwriter myth, and have nothing to say for yourself but a lot of florid weeping and moaning. I knocked a little hole in your wall because I care. Pornography drives the photograph forward into full relation to its time, and becomes a method to produce clear prospects on what was once obscure. I continue to love your body, the taste of your tongue and sweaty ass, only because I simply can't imagine you, and see not you, but a broad expanse of sky, on the far side of every window into which I peep."