To care. The aerogramme made a lily of necessity, stumped box, redolence ribboned far off in the glass cities I opened and closed to the dandy drawers. A colt emerged on a clotted pansy. A pan required fanning. This repose a thread files. Inside the spitting rope sweeps like a foppish knot or lighthouse, a beam where the sun withers like snow in its box of jewels. Like a towel-like now.
"Aside from their humor, Don DeLillo's novels are noted almost as frequently for their brilliant terror, manifested as a %frisson% at the core of contemporary existence..."
~ Charles Bernstein, From" _LIBRA_ AND THE HISTORICAL SUBLIME,"
