The printed repeats of post-modern modern living; pattern copyrighted by the wry eye, the deadbeat designer luft-lifted to religious legionnaire. A color co-ordinated rock chorus sings the setting pattern that labyrinths us to death. The wavy paisleys that doily-work the lifestyle-stylist's unbuttoned blouse into incestuous palimpsest make my head ache. The divine grind of the final line of the requiem's aghast ovation gladdens the lapse into silence. Will maggots fatten on my quill of coffin? Who else will eat my delectable inks? The handwritten record of a thing eeks out each etch until letters spider the eyes an unprintable black. Facsimile graffiti hang in the British Museum, the scrawl of royal prisoners gallowsed or gutted --one scratch of time memorialized before they were mud.