| LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village Joe Elliot It's not out there. It's not out there to get or strive after. It goes where you go, unobtrusive as a shadow, only needing to be remembered. These are the words I said as I walked over the bridge. I don't know if they are true or where they go after they leave my mouth or if they have an effect. No, I'm exaggerating. I'm sitting at a table writing things down because I'm uncomfortable and want to have something here with me. I write something and there it is. The part about more solidity although there's nothing there. Nothing out there but an idea of otherness to hold on to or not. The sky pales and at this hour even in the city the birds sing. There's no other way to put it: they sing. In the spaces between sliced up pieces of blank index cards that can't be re-assembled the birds sing. Which would be a fine ending but then she had to get up and entertain a cup of coffee. Had to. Two cards: the first, a snow bank, the way meaning used to be; the second, never dealt Next |