Husserl and the Walsers

One thirty in the morning and I’m thinking about Husserl and Martin Walser, trying to figure out if the latter was related to Robert Walser, the Swiss madcap with an ear for cant and Kant. There is a north-westerly breeze breezing through my bedroom window and the smell of rot and wither, signs of Spring and foul weather to follow; and as I have an arthritic neck, a titanium shoulder, hinge and mortise, and an encroaching headache the answer seems simple, more so, simpler than simple, simplest simple, yes, quite facile, hackneyed and banal: who gives a rat’s ass Werther the two were related, Husserl perhaps, but he’s dead, rotting in some lime pit, which by all appearances, has neither a middle, end or beginning, just one run-on sentence that reminds me of Miss Jeffery’s high-heels clopping down the hall in fifth grade middle-school, which had neither a middle, in between or centre of gravity, or was that a nativity scene, hayseeds and bootstraps and Husserl counting to one-hundred backwards, or was it forwards, the point seems moot, stupid at best, inane, perhaps. So there’s a breeze, an east-westerly breeze breezing in through my boot-room window, Miss Jeffery’s high heels clipping down the drainpipe spout, or is it the eaves, who knows, certainly not I, the I that is I but not I, the I-I, or some such nonsense. Oh yes, thank you from the bottom of my poetic heart Octavio, you were a blessedly grand writer, and take a good picture to boot, or was that bedroom window, maybe it was boot-room, I’m reaching here, spouting off at the ears, with neither a middle, end or in between, just one long sun-on my face run-on sentence, Miss Jeffery’s, well you know where this is going…one fifty-seven in the morning and I’m thinking about Husserl, carrot cake and the Walser’s, and not necessarily in the order, or Kant for that matter, which really matters very little now does it, I mean really, does it?