December 31, 2005


10am, Telegraph, rained-over, wind-swept, deserted except for the Usual Suspects (myself included); in the Milano an old homeless guy up the back starts sobbing loudly, behind the counter they turn up the music and soon we're all immersed in cheerfully-cheesy Conjunto and the smell of burning bagels. I walk down to Moe's through sudden driving rain and buy Deleuze's monograph on Francis Bacon -- who could resist a book full of sentences like "The head-meat is the becoming-animal of the figure"? Not me.


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