The summer after the winter when Henry Hagglyhoagly played the guitar with his mittens on one cold winter night under the window of Susan Slackentwist, outside the dark pink air was already hot and alive with cries. In watermelon sugar the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in the fire of the holy madness even books lose their gravity, and let themselves go up into flame: "Properly," says Ezra Pound, "we should read for power. Man reading should be man intensely alive. The book should be a ball of light in one's hand." "Phillip," she said. "This is crazy." I didn't agree or disagree. I bit her neck. Her fingers pinched my back like ants. I expected a remark to kill good death. This, of course, is because today's postfeminist era is also today's postmodern era, in which they know we're all real estate, and while they probably hold the eventual hope of making love's Ultimate Purchase, they're clearly open to renting. Pop Quiz 9: You are, unfortunately, a fiction writer.