he had hoped to feel a certain strong emotion but this is all they had to say:
"I was the son of a man, and so we came together and we shook hands."
"We shook hands."
He often wondered what a million people would look like scattered randomly
across a moonless sky, and how unlikely it would be that they would all just say the
"You may call me brother now."
"Yes, brother, I know."
He is forty two,
normally wears his curly hair long.
He has a ruddy complexion, broad shoulders and is barrel-chested,
is unusually strong.
He frequently wears a full beard and sometimes glasses.
He is a college graduate, a talented artist, and sculptor.
Now, Maps is a soft-spoken loner, who resents society and all organizations.
Maps fancies himself a ladies' man.
He is an avid chess player, smokes cigarettes, and a pipe.
He is a beer drinker and loves to eat.
Maps is a man of widespread interests, who might very well be living abroad.
He felt lost but he felt pretty intensely good,
and he woke up screaming having dreamed of a color he had never seen before:
"I went to bed and to sleep, it was so unexpected, it really was frightening, and I saw
the same thing embedded in my pillow."
He had no trouble recognizing patterns in the most delicate arrays of tangled lines,
but he had a strange fixation on partaking in nefarious things:
"Stealing, lying, cheating, gambling, fornicate..."
He saw red, but he thought five.
He was pleased to find his road trip was enhanced by number-color synesthesia:
"My trusty Rosinante bounds along the road very well, leaving the friendly aroma of donuts and
chicken tenders hanging in the desert air."
He willed away the miles while quixotically attempting to reclaim his inner child,
he was embrangled and enmeshed in something far too loud to comprehend:
"I want all of the American people to understand that it is
understandable that the American
people cannot possibly understand."