
I got guts on my mind; couldn’t find a way to commune with For M without being discovered for my secret, shameful weirdness. So I stopped, sighed, and moved on: it was a beautiful afternoon anyway, no reason to linger and think of perforated intestines, visceretcetera. Rusty tubes on skytop sculpture gardens seem so septic; I’ve got guts on my mind. But, oh! That pink!