The stick
figure—coming to a halt in the Champ
de Mars—broods on some
dripping
ice
castles, then cuts like a stadium
vendor through the bulk-
y, crowd-lined
shadows
of the tower. But do crowds
cover shadows, he
wonders, or
shadows cover crowds? He sees
pals from
afar, the ones
he admires so
much he makes house-
hold goods in their very
forms—these
thingies are
peddled to silly
spare tourists the stick
figure's
friends
ignore. Every
day the gang eats
lunch with each
other's lovers and
clerks
and dogs. They lap it
right up and rush
home to write so sternly
proudly to father and sister
and aunty about the fish
soup and motorcars, never
quite for-
getting the scratchy
blisters on their wait-
ress's arms. For such irksome
times of re-
membrance, the stick figure
carries a device—one-third
fungus, one-third steel,
one-third juice—which smoothes
the circle around his fea-
tureless face. Simplicity, he
maintains, must
be enforced.
__
Not really ([?])
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