
* * *
O, the desecrated copy of Jane Smiley's latest new-to-me novel, read over an afternoon when anything else, any other text or idea, seemed oppressive. O, the moment I tucked myself under the trees and the mushrooms just. spread. out.
Oh stupid purple prose. Oh idiotic poison ivy on which I apparently kneeled in order to get at the benighted fungi.
(Heh.)
SPORE PRINT!
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