I was sitting in a strip club on Notre Dame, this girl on stage is on fire. She's Finnish or something. She's got this weird tattoo on her belly, looks like if a Japanese calligrapher were to write in Arabic. I get her attention by slipping a bill into her thong and she bends down and whispers to me, "What do you do?"

"I'm a writer."

"And what do you write?"

"Poetry."

"No poets don't own words."

"What?"

"No poets don't own words."

Then some perv from Verdun got her to give him a dance contact.

She went backstage after that and the next girl had clearly been at this gig for too long, so I was thinking about leaving when the Finnish chick came out and bought me a drink. We didn't even small-talk (I heard from a Norwegian that the Finns don't small-talk, too weird even for a man named Grim). She bought me a drink and invited me over.

The rest of the night is kind of hazy. I was already sloshed when she'd got on stage.

Her apartment was up in the Quartier Concordia, just a 2 and a half on Lincoln and I must have been really far gone because I remember and shifting and the carpet wouldn't stay the lobby blurring a kept swirling off to the left like and my fucking still but kit but then it all just turned into some eyes tried chasing all the doorknobs felt like they were whorling vortex, ands and I hear her say something weird agmelting into the hanNO WORDS and suddenly this Finn girl is ain POETS DON'T OWN s are dilating but we're taking off our pulsing and her word that tattoo is just fucking glowing -- reclothes anyway and TNTing I saw once can't remember who did minds me of this pai she's moving her mouth and i hear this it -- and as we fuck like NO POETS DON'T OWN WORDS POETS DON'Tchant or something WORDS POETS DON'T RUB OUT THE RITE WORD OWN NO WORDS OWN NO RUB THE OUT WORD RIGHT RUB THE OUT RUB TH WORD RUB THEE OUT THE OUT WORD WRITE THE OUT WORD RUB THE E OUT PARTISANS RUB DON'T OWN NO RUB PARTISANS DON'T OWN POETPOET OUT PARTISANS RUB RUB OUT OWN WORDSS NO POETS DON'T KNOW