When will people stop thinking that their lives are stories? That the car crash, and the stray cat, and the window that won't open when it's raining make up the parts some meaningful story-line? The real argument of art is an argument of form. That there is a voice-over talking above the trees when we are sleeping?  Someone throw the ice tray into the black garbage bag. The mail never arrives. Letters get lost. Or they don't get written. Nobody writes. I'm sick of ice cubes. Of interviews on tv. Of all cliche. Pisting yawa. I want to wake up and fix the bathroom counter, because I have the suspicion that in it lies the pattern of days.