The clown and I are in a cafe, not a very nice cafe, a Caribou Coffee.

The clown and I are in a cafe, not a very nice cafe, a Caribou Coffee.

The clown is looking at one of my short stories.

"Is it genuine feeling? Or is it just a kind of base sentimentality?" I implore to the clown.

The clown keeps reading the story.

"Does it have rhythm? Is it surprising?"

The clown jumps up and runs out, knocking over things. He returns with a goat in a party hat.

"What!"

The clown rubs his belly and indicates we have reached the promised land. The goat is eating my story.


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