The Archeologist
The Archeologist 

She sits alone, puts the sounds of the words she’s writing into her mouth, with a little smoke, and absentmindedly lets them all spill quietly out, again.
She’s a depression in the system where the sick repetition of gossip passes between the paragons of gossip beneath sorry decadent impressionisms that vibrate to the pretentious jangle of jazz rattling through a quadraphonic explosion of speakers.
—A drink, Miss Jane?
—Most certainly. No original thought ever made itself manifest without a tincture of the old green stuff. For one to think originally, one must always drink excessively.

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