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A Dream Of Bruce Sterling
i was sleeping over at Tryssa's place. i was sleeping on the couch. i dreamed that Bruce Sterling was a Chinese poet who worked out of a little sampan. he plied his trade in a series of rivers or canals around Hong Kong. he told me about how much competition there was these days. i pointed out that he could use that cool ceramic machete hanging from his belt to reduce the competition, and he shook his head and gave me a wry sort of apologetic grin. "it's not that bad." his grandfather had a plan to help Mr Sterling sell his poems; he'd make potato cakes and Mr Sterling could give one away with each poem. Mr Sterling thought this'd be a great idea if grandfather would just cut down on the amount of goddamn garlic he put in the mix.
Fri, 3 Apr 1998 |
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