“And I will never speak again. Under the oath and influence of a strong McGinley epiphany and the sounds of ululating wind in the middle of the canopied trees, I can’t survive stilly. The world is bendy and twisty and sick and murky while I’m restless, I’m reckless, in a state of pensive impersonation. And I will never speak again. Not from the heart, not from the lips, not from the attention. And I will never speak again. Not of the cloudily fluffed beard of the sky, not of the Freudian climate of old minds, not of the rude chef on the high coasts, not of the cases at the high courts. If you can’t think of your next move you’re on the which way lost ad on a deadly roundabout to the roadhouse diner, where food is filled with poison and drinks blessed with the earthy spit of a…