The Unknown: The Purple Line.
  To Krass-Mueller:

I don’t know who Krass-Mueller is, but the name alone suggests intensity, daring, and intelligence of a rare sort. It’s the sort of intelligence one often finds in the margins of notebooks, the doodles of exceptional students who too are exceptionally bored; it’s the sort of intelligence one suspects will one day be embedded in Silicon and give life to a new style of hipster—although we can not be sure. Krass-Mueller is clearly an important figure to the Unknown and an important figure to the literary community, no matter our individual familiarity with him—the name is enough to suggest order on a high level of order; derring-doo in the most quotidian circumstances, such that though the rising of bread has taken place over centuries, it is still a magic kind of derring-doo that makes the yeast do what the yeast does, which is rise; and engineering prowess, in this case, one assumes, with the mechanical tools of the alphabetical symbols called letters. Krass-Mueller, let me offer you membership in this, the most promiscuous of clubs, the Unknown; let me invite you to become an honorary Unknown among Unknowns, not simply because to me you are unknown, but because you have inspired so much that is Unknown, unquantified, unqualified, and either forgettable or memorable, to be determined. How you live having accomplished all that is Unknown, as is your style of chopping garlic, or if even you chop garlic. Welcome then. You are among friends.


One or more members of the Unknown, lapping as bathtub water at the porcelin of the tub

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