Most of the people are no thicker than Formica, yet they hunger obscurely for some continuity with the place and with each other.
Bill Knott's poems are . . . rhetorical fluff . . . and fake.
It's just this epidemic unimportance, this pervasive feeling that just about everything is "no big deal," that drives these ordinary people to those fast-food joints, there to try to fill with carbohydrates the spiritual and emotional emptiness gnawing inside them.
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