Henry’s last story “ A Peculiar Vision” was written in March— four or five months ago. In the dry time Henry thinking daily or nightly that he was finished, nothing else to say, dried up, kaput, time to off himself like Hemingway or Tennessee Williams. (Williams out in a kind of slow booze and dope fizzle, not a bang really.)

Simply put, he had nothing to say anymore, he was empty inside, there was nothing there, just some shit and a little blah, blah, blah. 

He was sick inside, his head thick, abandoned, neither robust or spiritual. 

At nights Henry would walk to  Seventh Street, the greatest show on earth— Whores and strumpets, sailors and sinners, here and there, chanting mantra forever—Henry could find some peace here. 

Come little children into the arms of Jesus, let him embrace you and lift you up!

Walking the dark and cold streets, through the city canyons, Henry felt poetry at work around him, perfuse, passing through it all. Silent whispers and breath keeping it all going.

People on the streets, just shadows to Henry and he invisible to them. They had breath enough to make it to the next stop he thought. Enough breath to pass the graveyards and slaughter houses, enough to make it home tonight—Henry was no different he needed breath too.

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