My life is a two-bit soap opera. I would rather be the black-crowned night herons I see in Chinatown, perched on lampposts or shop awnings after dusk, waiting for me to pass under so that they can snag day-old buns from the trashcans below. Then I'd have a purpose, an is-ness that works. I could gorge on the carrion of the city to the benefit of my stomach and municipal trash collectors. . . rather than hoarding images of it to no avail and calling myself a writer to the distress of my conscious self and family.




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