Publisher's Synopsis
Fiction. From THE BOOK OF DURING: In every a room, but could I describe it, ride around its edges, never quite pushing through the perimeter wherein we spent so many fucking afternoons. Terrible picture of all the words waiting relentlessly outside. What after all is the activity of telling beyond the fate of act? A feeling as if I had only heard about the teeming presence of my own life. And is your fucking a telling? Everywhere wandered around in here while we were doing it. But we hardly noticed, we were too palmed into our past decide. Will you tell me about it while we are doing it? Will you find yourself able to tell what we were doing while we are doing a thing similar? Can you relate to me.. Will you say everything you can recall from it, the act of saying of a fucking previous in a fucking present? And then you put your..and I lifted my...And then I came, and then you came, and then will we come? Or are these only as thoughts of a room, its light and walls?
