the introduction is an inane and aimless grand and breathy ramble spouted by a much-written-about writer espousing multiple "human classic" themes he unwittingly imposes on the actual text. Food, Sleep, and ("[ahem but i know so much about this subject that i need merely beat around the bush using the most cryptic, antiseptic, symbolic terms available within the trampled resources of my own writing faculties so as not to get my paragraphs all wet]") Sex (which (through knowing references to much-written-about books) he believes is considered (ahem) enjoyable) are (he believes) the underlying motivations of the character of Roy who (he believes) does resemble Raskolnikov in the slightest. after that walk down interminable corridors of early american government institutional facility (unpainted steampipe ineffective desk and threelegged chairs thrust aside until the proper janitorial paperwork is completed... the novel then opens like clambake ovens in a wave of heat and the dirbbling hiss of oil globules on cellarcold stone. there is an imperceptible murmur of whispered mystical incantations echoing down telescoping archways, columnades, unlit stairways. the spectral bloodless apparitions slowly don their ballpoint anointed HELLO MY NAME IS labels and drift inwards to the panoply exchanging hissed gossip through mascara-lashed countenances. the smiling arrival of the purse-clutching "Connie" Dobbs provokes tittering snickering fits of loathing and disgust among the waxen lips, coy cheeks. the funeral has been delayed as Glazier, restless, refuses to die. nervous lawyers struggle to convince him, assertively assuring him that his rigid visions of Napoleon and Pocahontas are guaranteed in the third hallucination clause of his postmortality contract. below on the moondeck at the transdimensional mezzanine and ice cream pavilion Bucky reclines poolside to the blown stanzas of Larry "Brass Pelican" Elvivi. it is Bucky's slackest hour and he knows it. he has ordered several squash daquiris and anticipates their trayed arrival with the calm assurance of a wealthy tanned suburbanite. the solemn haunt of the golem birds acting in their judicial capacity. which way to the restroom? up and to the right. was it Bucky's arrangement that provoked the decrepid incident in the basement: the unwashed sphere amid the rusted ventilators and the acrid aroma of the lye soap that rested in the slick indentation of the chipped and axlegreasestained porcelain sink? the corners were thick with uninvestigated treasures in crates of stale deal. the psychic feedback abrasive to the touch like the electric discharge of some timewhetted sharpening stone. the dust was grey and thick.
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