St. Anthony never asked questions in a letter because he never really blogged!

You get to jump on this one halfway into the game because this is the part I´ve already started with the musing to my own self and you can´t really do a thing about it, see, so whereas you´re even liable to speculate or muse to yourself it´s going to be of no use because I´ve already decided on the Hieronymus Bosch triptych winning over something by Magritte´s or another, and no I´m not really buying reproduction artwork and all.

It would nevertheless hang from that two-story wall just up above & by the side of the lower balcony, just so that you know.

It would hang there framed in silence for the short years to come- - maybe it will, still - - the Bosch painting hanging like a dreaded omen in tomorrow´s memory hovering over a telephone never really to ring, an inspiration held up against ending up smeared in blood or some O.D. or another, straight up that bit in the timeline saying Year Zero, Anno Domini, whatever, past the thrall of the real estate pipe-dream and the plastic credit card orgasms shed like dead skin flakes over a way-overused metaphor but that´s life, up until the moment it´s no longer what it was supposed to have been.

I used to remember tomorrow in a totally different way:
What would you do like ten, eleven years later?