Had to kept blowing nose full uh soot. Blondes never do work in the ships hull. By that I mean, where the heat gets made. They are far too fair an' the marks uh this chore make an irreversible cake, could be dug out the lines 'stead uh goin' tuh church. The Standards Set Forth by feeding this feast. Not kind. None.

"They call it, ‘the belly of the beast’."

"They are likely not the ones stooping about in stiff fatigues. Yes, they are rather the ones that make it such that a broken leg is held on by cloth an' a stick."

I had a great, great uncle. He worked in the basement of the doll factory at 152 Wooster St. Understand, mam, this is not any basement, not the kind our parents uglied up when we lived in the suburbs and wanted to disappear for fear that we already had. (There is a tune that can swallow this up. Am not gonna sing it, but it means well, yeah.)

What else can I tell you, my workboots, the ones that went with me to Nebraska, they knew my great, great uncle, but they only knew wet grass an' ash. But ash of uh modern kind, of a kind of living on a farm without cause for leaving, even when there was cause. (The devil got into my guts the third day there an' I tripped all the way to the dirt road where I called my mum and took photos of an unknown dead.) (Why.)