The Great American Novel

If there is progress then there is a novel. Without prog-ress there is nothing. Everything exists from the begin-ning. I existed in the beginning. I was a slobbering infant. Today I saw nameless grasses-I tapped the earth with my knuckle. It sounded hollow. It was dry as rubber. Eons of drought. No rain for fifteen days. No rain. It has never rained. It will never rain. Heat and no wind all day long better say hot September. The year has progressed. Up one street down another. It is still September. Down one street, up another. Still September. Yesterday was the twenty second. Today is the twenty first. Impossible. Not if it was last year. But then it wouldn't be yesterday. A year is not as yesterday in his eyes. Besides last year it ra-ined in the early part of the month. That makes a diffe-rence. It rained on the white goldenrod. Today being misplaced as against last year makes it seem better to ha-ve white-Such is progress. Yet if there is to be a novel one must begin somewhere.