I fell out of a tree in 1955. Entered the world like a cicada. There’s a chain of coffee places in New York City called “Pan Quotidien” which we are supposed to imagine means “customary bread”–but I generally hear it as “ordinary pain” which brings me back to the cicada. He walks around and then gets eaten. Once when I was in college I asked an entomologist why insect scholars aren’t more philosophical. He said that science is exact. Which I still take to mean “being eaten is being eaten” and that’s that. You see, there’s no meaning in being eaten. And across the street from “Pan Quotidien” is a Methodist Church. For those who hope being eaten means something. I fell out of a tree. Talk a lot. Make a clatter with my unsupportable wings. That’s it.
Planet of the Blind 