He was tough. Tough and lean, like a steak you get at a 24 hour greasy-spoon diner. He wrote in short, declarative sentences, like a bad imitation of Hemingway. He also used similes and sentence fragments like they were going out of style. Which they were. He himself was going out of style, and he liked it that way. The days of angst-ridden Lost Generation prose were gone. That's why Hemingway took a bullet-train out. But that didn't matter to the Man. He was lean and tough, and he repeated himself a lot. His wasn't the Lost Generation. His was the Found Generation. Everyone else had found themselves eventually, but he was still looking. "If I show up before I get home," he'd say, "Tell me to wait for myself until I do." He Grinned, not a friendly grin, but the Grin of one who knows he's capitalized things incorrectly, and didn't care. Paranoia wasn't just a way of life. It was a sacred calling. "The Man," he was fond of saying, "is out to get me." The one thing he didn't know, however, was that The Man WAS him. Or rather, that he was The Man. Either way, he never knew what or who he was after, because he never finished anything, especially when writing. Everything he wrote ended with an incompl-