Towed onward toward a slick fate of unparalleled success or immeasurable disappointment . . . But also this, by way of lemongrass curry and papaya salad:

Reading City on Fire and every single habeas corpus case challenging a four-level enhancement for use of a dangerous weapon on which I can place my hands, cleaning up with sodden paper towels the mess deposited by an old dog who should know better than to eat ornaments of flour salt red oil paint and glitter which mess made of the tan carpet a pink mottled microcosm, and sipping coffee filched from a halfway house at which the tired wearied palsied woe-be-gones had gathered along with the con artists the hustlers the slide-bys the schemers and the recently paroled.

it was the moon during which white styrofoam was the order of the day.