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A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress...


Sailing to Byzantium”, WB Yeats




Acknowledgments:

I’d like to express my appreciation for the support in the creation of this novel from the following people: Ben Frick, Beverly Frick, Susannah Frick, Sweet Loraine, Kent K., Bob M., J. W. Brown, Oldan, Abe P., and especially to Sylvia Gould for her extraordinary artistic effort in the creation of the cover for this novel.


I


Memento ergo erat. I remember, therefore I was. Approaching age 60, the unspooling yarn of my life now loops around two fixed points – the oak-shaded trailer park where I live now, and down the road fifteen minutes southward, a tin-roofed warren of long, shabby open air sheds that is triumphantly titled The Coma Parrish Thieves’ Market. Among four hundred other sweating fools, I work there weekends. If you could call it work. Fifteen minutes – as the truck route curves – from purgatory to hell and, eight hours later, back again. I sell sterling silver jewelry, a product too good for this monstrous market, but at my age, what other market is there?

So. That’s it, my life and welcome to it. Every other Friday, I depart my 12x60 mansion to visit the nearby Wal-Mart, for grub and booze, world without thinking/ At my age I ought to quit drinking....

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