Johnny Tom has a snake-like expression … he talks to me about sensual habits … his perverse pleasures … the extraordinary affection that he has for me. It is not a perfect picture. A cowboy ballad on the radio … the song has a slight folksy touch … it’s really irritating. I take a loyalty oath regarding our relationship. I can smell the spinal cord … neuro tissue … some other electronic circuits. Wet flakes of snow on a dingy stoop. No architectural beauties on this avenue corner. Johnny Tom moves his belongings into a large mansion. He has a wardrobe full of thin shoes. I have frequent consultations with him … he prescribes me with certain powders that are an attempt to stop my brain mischief. I sleep at various offices along Canal Street. Johnny Tom has a young physique … keen vision and a dark side … a muscular neck. I taste the painful scratches on Johnny Tom’s skin … a strong-jaw nip on his right leg. The dead black waters of the East River. Johnny Tom sprays fine perfumes onto my skin. Johnny Tom has dark hair … a massive head. Johnny Tom advises me he has contracted … what he hopes is … a short illness. Thick snow in the Tenderloin. Johnny Tom comments on how unusual that is. We fuck on a wooden table. I am a unhappy creature. My lips are swollen. Johnny Tom weeps tears … he has an acute disease … a joyless heart … a head like a horrible abyss. Johnny Tom drapes a cold hand across my chest. My hair is hair unkempt … hands full of maudlin tears … my inflamed eyes. A drunken din from the nightclub below. The empty air inside the bedroom. Johnny Tom’s eyes are brown … he has fair hair … he talks with an intellectual cleanness … a deep excitement about him … a further childlike manner. Human misery runs a half-marathon. The fresh air of the Atlantic Ocean. Johnny Tom’s genial smile … his delicate hands … pitiful appearance … he is no longer an active man. A fine blaze over Brooklyn Heights. A pathological element to Johnny Tom’s sexual advances. He continues to write me obscene letters … performs other unbending acts. A long twilight over Los Angeles. Johnny Tom wears a winter coat. I can smell the universe … October … the remote parts of the universe … the whole show of the human sense … the celestial mechanics of the Ventura Freeway. Johnny Tom advises me that I possess many antisocial essences … not much in my pocket except twenty-five dollars … no cents. The primeval wilderness of Vinegar Hill. Salt breeze from out past the Santa Monica Pier … sewerage poured from a torpid liver. The simple apparition of this spiritual life … Johnny Tom fucks me at rare intervals … there is no unworldly meaning to this. Johnny Tom applies to work as a magazine editor. He has no experience except a whipping desire to work in an editorial office. There is no raw material within him to work with here. He is a complete angler of chance. We decide to relocate to Philadelphia … we want to be closer to the Betsy Ross House. It was a hot summer’s evening. Johnny Tom was in his private office. Johnny Tom writes me a report that details certain methods of criminal aristocracy. I go spend the afternoon in Little Italy.