resist raze the first thing he was going to buy was a bowl. he was going to buy the bowl because it was cheap and it reminded him of a different bowl, a bowl he broke when he was too young to care about breaking things. he saw the impulse for the guilty thing it was and tried to bribe it, tried to get it to go somewhere else. "hey, go to cuba," he said. "i hear it's warm there. you like warm weather, don't you? i'll send you first class. you'll have all the leg room you could ever want." it wasn't going anywhere. it wanted to be friends. well isn't that great, he thought. an unwanted impulse that wants to have a beer with you. and he never felt tall until he was looking at someone taller than he was. and he thought about that too. he saw a stain on his pants. probably from dinner the night before. and though it wasn't much larger than the mark the tip of a pen would make if he held it there and let the ink pool a little, it was all he could think anyone who talked to him for the rest of the day would notice about him. in every conversation to follow he knew he would have to fight his eyes to keep them from pulling away and going down there, showing whoever he was talking to what they should be staring at, leading them, directing them, saying look, here, see, see my stain, meet my stain, allow me to introduce you to my fucking stain, he's a prince of a stain. twenty eight years. i won't wash my pants for twenty eight years, he thought. we'll see what the stain's like at the end of that. that'll give them something to look at. a song he liked came on the radio and he put the bowl back where he found it. 140723 what's it to you? who go blather from