Index. Never, Never Again. Never. This is the sort of exercise that makes me wish I smoked cigarettes. This is an anarchy of little things: it’s a buffet of motifs!
Oh, nilly. No matter what it is you’re reading, everything turns into some sort of Deleuzian, Finnegan’s Wake-ish kind of log-flume when you’re this deep up its cavity. And that’s fun until you feel like stopping and you cannot, you must not stop. Golly.
Filthiest, worst poem I probably ever published in Sewanee’s Mountain Goat describes “an all-night crawl to the lair of the dead lion.” This situation is way apter for such a description. Ooh, from ‘art’ to ‘life.’ Stick it!