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Notes: He had already started writing. Pushing verbs and nouns and subjects together, connecting them with little bits of mud and honey and straw. Building a small wall of words on which he could paint a bright picture of his soul. His antennas looked around the room, pulling in random material, images from national geographic magazines, Pablo Neruda quotes, Gi Joe tins, the arc of a protractor. Ideas whizzing through his head like flys that he could swat and arrange dead or dying on the computer screen