Axioms to be rejected by, arias to saunter to, and codas to be buried with

Joy W. on the late style imprinted on a codex with the pen of the now dead man:

afterimages lingering in the afterlife of a mock moon, soon to be made absent forever in a world waning null.

Bowden making it known that he knew and was on speaking terms with the one who did the fear and loathing and making it known that he shares the abyss of the infinite with the one who taught us about fear and trembling from inside the carapace of all of the pseudonyms, and making it known that he broke bread with the unkept beards of all the sagacious desert rats whose bones are sun bleached and gnawed on.

He can speak in declarative sentences that would sooner sculpt despair than flinch at sentiment.

He would have you think he comes by it naturally, on account of being Chicago-born and going at things self-taught and making a record his own damn way, up to Madison, Wisconsin where he had been temporarily housed in the department of the futility of intellectual history, then on to an Arizona flophouse and a newspaperman on the trail of depravity, and hunting down and being haunted by all those stories, rising and falling in Los cruces and getting beat down in Murder City, old and tooth-rotten and scarred and honest about how the telling of it is fiction that aspires to truth and that is anchored in facts that no one really wants to believe.