Let’s finish. I will help you once, here in the cutting station. I will swab your eyes with Mandarin cotton and slather your bald head with drooling hexagons of Barbicide. Reaching in the jar next to those angular instruments, I will unpeel your eyes from mine and your obscene ant colonies of black stubble will crawl as a somnolent blue glares back, and within this mirror outside of which you no longer appear, the two dark moons of your exact hunter’s snare should go cross-and a dirty water floor from the moth eaten janitor’s bucket slops the surface of your reflection in raining dispersion while your two disproportionately large and stubbly hands reach (one cracked in the sea of age, bone and spotted liverwurst, one cauterized forever with the decades harvested red ions of children’s silent screams) rise one at a time and with the hobby horse patience at a carnival ride, to gauge my approach. You are fluttering. breathing as a man caught up with that one last thing in the week’s sleeping middle, as he begins to lose breath, only in a special way, as though a single hair had risen somewhere it never had before. You will still eat up gooey compliments up about your new baby blues as you feel fortune cookie strips fall from your muskrat ears with the frantic ring of a dated cash register informed of its eventual fate in the blinding lamplit alley end of a noir cut-out book for children who are dropping the filaments of paper glass through to the chair you are bound in giggle. A dry itch of burning nose hairs somewhere distant bothers you and a shuffling rainbow morph of bodiless deja vu takes a trick or treater’s shape in this always dimmer glass moon. Did that hurt? Consider: all this is gentler than, well, any standard experience as you’ve had here waiting in this spinning chair for someone to finish it in the cutting stations and drugged city nighttimes and all of autumn’s black delicatessens, and the body of Halloween leaves belly up with their Rice Krispy nightmare chill. In this last last cut I will read you a blinking red, white and blue bed-wetter (though I suspect the colors are dimming a bit) and as we close, and as much as I love parting without goodbyes, willful amnesia will not be possible; we can share something one more time. I will unfurl, for you, before we begin, a silk flag of cruel gnosis some desire but none really deserve or should want: because of me you will know your number, date, and time.