The closing door chokes off the roar of the party. Interesting. He tries
it again. Same effect. He can see his breath in the bedroom. He pulls
his sleeves down and considers crawling under the pile of coats on the
— Drunk, drunker than i thought. Boots where are my boots?
He sits on the bed and tries to remember. His eyes spin upward to the
bookshelf. A code: The gift triste-tropiques suicide distinction homo
academicus the postcard. His coat sleeve beckons from the pile and
triggers memories of his boots.
Out on the street, hands thrust deep into pocket and collar turned up
against the wind, he announces:
— Dilettantes. Derrida for dilettantes.
The judgment promises to echo off the brick, but dies in the cold. There
is only the crunch of cinders under boots.
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