book, not the whole novel, but I remember something about him tilting
at windmills, how he mistakenly thought the windmills were giants, enemies he would vanquish.
I put my hand on the extreme rust of the horse’s left haunch, wanting
to stain my palm. The tip of Quixote’s lance is riddled with small holes. I
look back at Andy Sloth. He has gotten out of the Cadillac and is leaning
against the car. He is watching the sky, the gloaming. I think about him
being a roadie for the Grateful Dead and being so fucked up he would
shoot up a bar. I think of his large, trivia-filled mind. I wonder if I will
ask him over to watch the last season of Life after People.