Before, the bill—I'm unsure of its providence—floated around my floor as a sort of novelty—a dainty for the mind—for all of my friends—who (if they aren't maoists per se) are at least fairly anti-capitalist. Now, its semiotic—and literal—elevation has caused the red sun to shine a malevolent glare upon my home; some beast or bogart or poltergeist has awoken in white wrath and smote my man in biblio.

My copy of the little red book—now floorbound—is now a haunting synecdoche of my waxing liberalism—principally the 3rd, 5th, and 12th types—and the over-indulgence of my just-find-me break from active political life.