From the lottery winner's letter of donation

One great big dark night after another, slowly squeezed, in passing, through a press, the crank, the planet's axis tilting, on one side the days grow longer, night pressed harder drip drips into the tilted bowl of space and finally slops over the other side's skies.
Saturday night, the city's soft beer-bearing breath.
Those—the text will read—who retained, or had recovered, longings, predispositions toward the antebabylonian state, hung strings of colored lights about their lodgings, invitations to spirit comforters, campy baubles of faux-mexican rabbit's foot charm.
When genuine causes produce ersatz effects.
I've developed a mental category for people whose skins are too smooth, in my eye, I've developed a twitchy dismissal of youth.
I'm the one with the hard snarl that This is not a game, people!—a slammer, yes, a rifle-butt into the small of the back-jammer.
Black-clad I sweep down upon an unsuspecting populace without immunity to criticism. What I would like to hear in response to what I say is a very loud crack.
Stalking about in a depressive gloom making paranoid predictions about other people's behavior and behaving most explosively myself.
On the train, noisy brown mortal boys, stocking-chapeaued, every third word Niggah, otherwise incomprehensible.
Here the spirit is disappointed, like children and foreigners when they learn the truth about buffalo wings.
City of students, endlessly instructive, endlessly annoying and sad.
Not peers anymore—peerlettes.
Most annoying—what could possibly be more annoying than medical students? All they want to do is help people and make five hundred thousand dollars a year. Watching them on the bus, consuming falafel, conducting groupspeak in booming voices—sensing them learning to converse over the patient's head, indifferent to whatever they bespatter and whomever they appall, one feels practiced upon.
And my lady cats and I have been most severally disturbed by the Chinese infant girls next door whose cries are sounding most like cats themselves.
Although I am moving to New York next year to write a novel— make America that I can make a million dollars, then, it is that kind of contribution,
an investment in the bettering of my conditions.
Make public policies to remove creative blocks.
Cloak in ashes the white lives of content providers, cloak in tissue their leavings
like their langorous succumbings to colds.
My generation, caught between whores and venal naifs
in this perfect hollow, this tomb of the unknown Thalberg.