I’d been calling H. a fatass-capitalist-placator-of-bourgeois-souls for the past six months. He actually agrees. And then he calls me a champagne-socialist-teacher-of-bourgeois-kids. Fair enough.
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I’ve always thought that it was like a fresh croissant: freezing it destroys the texture and flavour of it. He doesn’t need me to record anything. He can say it again anytime he pleases. I will never trade his voice for the recollection of it. I aim to stay tuned, to stay tuned all the time. And I’m left thinking: Give us this hour our daily croissant?
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