Quirky artifacts of heartache and of terminal end stage malaise

Kelvin was reading Ferry’s rendering (clearing brambles of the mind) on the epistle to the manager of the farm. He was deep in the stacks and as he alternated checking and marveling over and questioning what Ferry had wrought, his mind would occasionally drift to the classicist wunderkind in a PhD program at age 19 who could not help but give off the austere luxury vibe of the unconscionably wealth even when donning the indigent graduate assistant khaki/sweater/clarks suede Chukkas uniform and whose invocation of and subsequent riffing on the genitive/possessive ambiguity in the title of the seminar kelvin was auditing and he was guest starring in, Philosophy of Art, shattered Kelvin’s brain cells. He thought of it later too as they leaned over the multiple lines of second city marching powder, those little blue capsules smashed into a more or less sequenced delivery system for which Kelvin and the grad student, named Peter Cunningham, shared an ever deepening affinity, Kelvin with his scratch paper from the computer lab rolled into a spherical tube and Peter always at the ready with his fifty quid rolled up the same, until it got to the point where it would seem only inevitable they would retire to the corner bar to argue the proposition of whether China will get rich before it gets old and take in the eye candy around them, then stumble up and down the streets that are inconspicuously but thoroughly haunted by the ghosts of leopold and loeb, still.

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