A staying memory from the gallery on 59th St: The Eternal Return of the Assiduous Bespectacled Accountant, brut sans anee, charcoal on paper, private collection.

A sensible ardor moves him to pore through all the signs and codes, naughts and what-not's, unscramble their employment, weigh on their sensefullness, ascribe contained meanings on giddy, jingly vectors of  personal emotion and distinct interjection. Then hunchbacked, down he bows into a newfound light and carefully gathers and mixes all their trajectories into a spring bouquet designed to match his interior decorations in indiscernible palette for equally the blinded  and the cogent eye.  Nevertheless, a uniquely fragrant desk is now impeccably dressed up to meet its daily scribe, an industrious bespectacled  accountant, who  diligently balances and records the flightless flies and withered cacti needles left over in his vision of the world. Behind his Swiss banker's chair, a musty self-actualizing banner giveth in inherent indulgence of old Greek persuasion transcribed in vulgata Latin:  Nothing is ever lost in, everything is always found out. And right underneath reads the endorsement, the mission, and the business offer: UBS, but I don' t! Checks and balances.

Out of desert flowers, fragrant humors. Out of the dusty corners of his guts, prandial specks of gourmet glitter, proudly displayed in edible arrangements. Out of this world: Homo Economicus, checked and balanced. Or naught.