It was Lotto Monday. Winning the lotto makes a few rich, maybe happy, being rich part lugging a psycho monkey around and part being a show-off, it was good for people's ego, a massage.
Most think it is better to be rich than poor, they are right, the very rich are happy to be rich and so on and so forth.
Henry feeling lucky to have what he had, out in the middle somewhere and waiting, waiting it out.
Here is another one—
Your health is more precious than diamonds or gold, everybody knows that, for obvious reasons.
Here to stay Henry thought, the petty edict of man-kind having everything do to with money and less to do with the poorest people in the world, it was bigger than him, bigger than anyone, you had to laugh, it was hopeless.
The inexorable few rebelling against the petty morality part of it, the saviors beaten before they got out of the gate, there is an endless stream of them coming down the turn-pike right at you at you.
Henry chuckling to himself some here and...
Listening to Allen Ginsberg reading on radio Charlotte, WEYJ, Alvah calling them,
“Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated—“
There is an explanation out there for everything under the Sun, an explanation for everyone and everybody. The things we do are analyzed.
Sylvia Plath reading “ Gold Mouth’s Cry” on the radio.
“ The bronze boy stands knee-deep in centuries,
and never grieves,
remembering a thousand autumns,
with sunlight of a thousand years upon his lips
and his eyes gone blind with leaves.”
Truly beautiful Henry thought.
The great writers unlike the average, in touch with something out there, something humble, they were sucker punched by it.
And so on and so forth, today the same as many, never changing much.