I read about a man in medieval China who set himself the task of breeding the most beautiful goldfish for some chick painfully above his station. That's the way stories work, and I didn't read the end because it was in a book in a bookstore and I had to go to class. But I thought about it on the way. And when a papery blonde woman lectured about Croce and his hard-on for history I wrote neat dot points in my exercise book. What goldfish? How many generations? What colour? How long and how many frail fleshless goldfish fry had to die? When did he know he was finished and did the goldfish know his twisted, slow, ungainly body was moulded as a noble gesture? I understand that's the way love works, and, sometimes I think about the chick and the man but mostly I wonder about the goldfish.
Keep writing.
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