Not as much as you fear life.

I suppose it’s like Gertrude Stein said, “There’s no there there.”

“Goodbye, David,” he said, “thanks for visiting.”

Matt’s sentiments weren’t remarkable, but his delivery was. He said the five words in the course of a long belch.

Matt shrugged when I marveled at his exceptional ability; he takes his skill for granted. I suppose that’s always the way it is; I rarely meet anyone who thinks their unusual talents are noteworthy.

Villem is selling lots of “Poet’s Promotional Packages” for thirty-five dollars each. Each packet consists of an eight-page booklet exhorting poets “not to hide their light under a bushel” (whatever that means) and forty-one oversized envelopes addressed to prominent poetry editors and publishers.

Now here’s the beautiful part: the editors know what Villem’s doing, so they don’t bother opening the preaddressed submissions. All the aspiring poets’ work goes directly to the trash, with one notable exception.

Al Rogers, the editor of the Nome Poetry Review, welcomes all the poetry he receives. All the poems go into a shredder, then into his stove. The poetry may not warm anyone’s heart, but the drivel keeps Rogers’ cabin warm throughout the long Alaskan winter.

I used to inadvertently steal other people’s work, but I don’t anymore. That’s because I like to be in control of what I do. And so, when I steal, I like to know what I’ve purloined so that I can cover my tracks. I feel sorry for drunks and artists who don’t know what happened last night.

As an aside, I don’t remember what happened last night, but that gas nothing to do with kleptonesia, cryptonesia, or a liter of vodka. That’s my story, and I believe it. Sort of.

I evaluated the situation here at the lab, and noted that we don’t even have a three-hour supply of Rainier Ale. I’m not sure what to do about that. I should keep enough ail to last for three days. That may be impossible, though, since demand always expands to overwhelm supply. I’ll have to look at the numbers, but I fear there’s no such thing as a three-day supply of Rainier Ale.

Oh well. If there’s an earthquake strong enough to interrupt ail deliveries, with any luck it will be powerful enough to kill me so that I won’t notice. I suppose that’s what it will take for supply to exceed demand.