The Dead Fathers head. The main thing is, his eyes are open. Staring up into the sky. The eyes a two-valued blue, the blues of the Gitanes cigarette pack. The head never moves. Decades of staring. The brow is noble, good Christ, what else? Broad and noble. And serene, of course, hes dead, what else if not serene? From the tip of his finely shaped delicately nostriled o the ground, fall of five and one half meters, figure obtained by triangulation. The hair is gray but a young gray. Full, almost to the shoulder, it is possible to admire the hair for a long time, many do, on a Sunday or other holiday or in those sandwich hours ly placed between fattish slices of work. Jawline pares favorably to a roation. Imposing, rugged, all that. The great jaw tains thirty-two teeth, twe of the whiteness of standard bathroom fixtures and four staihe latter a sequence of addi to tobacco, acc to legend, this beige quartet to be found in the ter of the lower jaw. He is not perfect, thank God for that. The full red lips drawn ba a slight rictus, slight but not unpleasant rictus, disclosing a bit of mackerel salad lodged between two of the stained four. We think its mackerel salad. It appears to be mackerel salad. In the sagas, it is mackerel salad.
Dead, but still with us, still with us, but dead.
No one remember when he was not here in our city positioned like a sleeper in troubled sleep, the whole great expanse of him running from the Avenue Pommard to the Boulevard Grist. Overall length, 3,200 cubits. Half buried in the ground, half not. At work ceaselessly night and day through all the hours for the good of all. He trols the hussars. trols the rise, fall, and flutter of the market. trols what Thomas is thinking, what Thomas has always thought, what Thomas will ever think, with exceptions. The left leg, entirely meical, said to be the administrative ter of his operations, w ceaselessly night and day through all the hours for the good of all. In the left leg, in sudden tucks or niches, we find things we need. Facilities for fession, small booths with sliding doors, people are noticeably freer in fessing to the Dead Father than to any priest, of course! hes dead. The fessions are taped, scrambled, reposed, dramatized, and then appear iys theaters, a new feature-length film every Friday. One reize moments of ones own, sometimes. The right foot rests at the Avenue Pommard and is naked except for titanium steel band around ahis linked by titanium steel s to dead men (dead man n. 1. a log, crete block, etc., buried in the ground as an anchor) to the number of eight sunk in the green of the Gardens. There is nothing unusual about the foot except that it is seveers high. The right knee is not very iing and no one has ever tried to dynamite it, tribute to the good sense of the citizens. From the ko the hip joint (Belfast Avenue) everything is most ordinary. We enter for example the rectus femoris, the saphenous he iliotibial tract, the femoral artery, the vastus medialis, the vastus lateralis, the vastus intermedius, the gracilis, the adduagnus, the adductor longus, the intermediate femoral eous nerve and other simple premeical devices of this nature. All w night and day for the good of all. Tiny arrows are found in the right leg, sometimes. Tiny arrows are never found in the left (artificial) leg at any time, tribute to the good sense of the citizens. We want the Dead Father to be dead. We sit with tears in our eyes wanting the Dead Father to