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.
