Remember that time in Albuquerque when we had tripe-eel soup? You had on a hat with feathers---I think---and I a pair of genuine Navajo moccasins. You ate a moth, a blue and yellow and red moth you stabbed through the carapace with a compass-point, and I a fly—I think, a drab looking gray fly. You went about barefoot, your toes like briar knots, and I, I went about in my genuine Navajo moccasins, the ones I bought from a genuine Navajo so he said, but I doubt it, remember, because he had on a Pope’s hat with a peaked top and a pair of suede walking shoes, slip-ons, were they, yes. Do you remember any of this, any of it, or am I mistaken, deceiving myself again, yes. I still have those genuine Navajo moccasins, the ones I bought from the in-genuine Navajo, the one in suede slip-ons and a Pope’s hat. I think I ate the moth, maybe, maybe the fly, too. Or was it Duluth, was it, and not Albuquerque, and a purple and orange and black moth, or sausage soup with feathers?
