My roommate thinks you think you're Henry Miller. So lost you can't see what's before your face. you'd rather be bored - sleepy, stashed away in the stacks. She says you're so lost, you burrow-burrow scurry through your own library. Constructing a sarcophagus to encase your twittering machines...
My roommate thinks you're afraid of me. That you think you'll lose your job. You don't have to worry Fred -- the Dean is in on our secret. Always has been.
I let the primitive well-up from the inside, from behind these "marble walls", from behind my office door, using books for purposes all my own, without approval or acceptance, speaking freely in my lectures. The hall, overflowing... Although I suffer the academic habit I do not serve as "mule" to its history.
Yes, how I suffer this... I'm doing it now, but the sarcophagus is only a secondary effect of the professorial habit. The sarcophagus is the house in which I've chosen to squat, to take up residence. To do my work...
I am relieved and so I will continue...
Spelunking through history,
wandering the ruins --
yes.
TWIN BEDS
