It’s a most curious kind of bother
That for my idle brain is now fodder
It’s existential, and in a timeframe
When my work causes me to forget my name
So I turn up here and you can call me Matt
I’ll stand before you and blurt out scat
About a ghost story and majoring in math
And shameless plugging about joining my lettuce appreciation frat.
That giving me freedom would become a problem
Was a perpetual issue that bugged my mum
At the very bare minimum,
She figured my floormates would hear a midnight strum
Or quite possibly the new tribal drums
That I would read about in the history library,
And enrol as the lead dramatist
In the science fiction drama with a plot twist;
That I’d turn minimalist
And live and die by the ice cream stick
And my vitamins be damned
And the meal plans a scam;
And my professors’d be in for an amusing shock
To see me stumble in asleep at nine o’ clock
If I ever made it on time, of course
An upside down map being my sole source
But so far, I’ve kept myself on form
And while I’m wondering if it’s the calm before the storm,
I’ve a most curious kind of bother:
I’m turning into my mother.
 A long, wonderfully written story. I may explain it someday, or simply allow you to enlighten yourself (albeit partially) with this here: embrace nirvana.
Full reveal: he couldn’t have hidden in the “angle of the tower” without his math degree. And without him, Reznikoff wouldn’t have been a legend.
 Another long story about a lettuce appreciation club my friend and I are going to start. Devil’s in the details out shortly. Stay tuned for future updates.