Exhausted. Worn out. Collapsed on the desk. Fire limping along. Piles of papers. Books. Books, books. Open, torn, thrown. Piled on everything. Compasses, T-squares, crude measuring devices. Broken animal cages line walls. The doors all left open. Pencils bit in half. Ugly photos of women from the east. In each one they hold a toaster or other desperate appliance. “I can hold. See how I hold? Strong grip. Tell me about prize. When is it mine?”
Piles of shoes that do not fit, but, “better hang on to these, could be the answer.”
Broken and defeated. A giant, floor-standing globe. Big countries colored in black. Bird skeletons.
The whole scene pervaded by a sense of “not being up to the task, of not coming to terms with it. To have wrestled with the very idea of America itself and been thrown off like a green boy. Tried it all and still it stands, untouched, silent from afar, but, when pressed hard against its side, you can hear the wails.