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Richard Speck
B. 12.6.41 Monmouth, Illinois / D. 12.5.91 Statesville, Illinois

This (as in "this") is "in progress" and for Monday morning readers only. I can’t put a sentence together right now, much less an entry; even this sentence should be different and/or something else. Especially that sentence. My "ear"! All it hears are alternatives, no final choices. They’re being kept under lock and key by Price Waterhouse maybe. Speaking of which:

“Women all around the world dream of the happiness I am having now.”
Writing your name turns me inside out; it explodes me. Kamikaze, I do it anyhow.
Catherine Zeta Jones.
You make other people look like sperm.

I apologize to my readers; I am so disappointing! About the Epitome nightclub crush: nothing. South Korea’s subway fire: zip. Indoor fireworks in Warwick, Rhode Island: not a peep out of me. Not that anything more is required in the way of timely written responses, especially from someone who’s writing her worst at the time. (Disasters, disasters with every new sentence.) Death tolls: stacks of china plates getting shoved off their shelves onto the front page, where their broken bits bury speculation about when the organized mass murders will start. Sweeping armfuls of porcelain onto the floor: like jealous brats, the amateurs demanding their due.

Quotation from HELLO (2.18.03)

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