You hadn't ought have blown them up so randomly, could take to sword and cape, lurk in alleys, do them in. I've known nine months that you were probably the bomber but supressed it, shoved it down as you sank consequence in craftmanship, a casing to go off, vanishing art, a scream, a hand or eye inoperative. Shrapnel was inelegant but worked a treat. Private, in your enterprise, as any hometown Ford. Just yesterday a young maybe gifted writer said he'd write a poem about Nabisco executive offers, sock it to 'em.
Writing is the easy part.
He liked the wit of that. There are plenty of words for what you did but none of them stick. The paper's full of 'em, as it was of yours set, proofed, delivered to anyone but me, who didn't care about your references to Kant as if urging us to make bombs, too, your words anonymous, addressed. You'll want to know what I eat. Virginity the absence of a felt relation.