A strong offended sense of the ridiculousness of the human being

Big hearted but not a sucker, reticent but not dour, flinty but not brutish, capable of losing time but not a dirty hippie: an assemblage of traits that would build and amplify each other into what might pass for spiritual vagabonding.

Whitman in the supermarket, rapping melons and tracing the supple ovals of Roma tomatoes. Chinaski at the track with an eye on the chalk and a fluttering heart. The New York Football Giants dancing asunder on the clotted blood of Exley and his stigmata. Helen and her goshawk, in love with the lengthening tumble of a shadow that just matches the downward slide of another solitary year.

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It would take the opposite of onomatopoeia, or at least someone who would tell me this is a “very unique” moment without melting my face off, for me to able to summon the magic that might bolster the velocity to break free from yet another wintry night’s sad clutches.