Words surround me. Stacks tower; loom. Terrorize, even.

Sneer, even.

I speak in abstracts. I have difficulties with the concrete; confounding, confusing, the language is never universal, and subtleties submerge themselves in the ensuing chaos. I prefer to speak in abstracts, ignoring the boundaries of form and composition, of letters and characters. Confining, contradicting as I struggle, scoffing at my silly attempts at speech. I leave it to others, instead. Trails of torture to be followed, and rubbed off the shore by the tide.

Gaps, mostly. Empty space perpetuates itself; I yearn to hear the echoes. I try to keep the beat, tap my toes to the tones, flow my fingers into a melody, a harmony; then, syncopation, improvisation, modulation, amplification. A music-maker, faking it. Letters and characters, fumbling with each other on-screen, separate, never touching, never falling into each other. A disgrace, language is, but then, how to tell a story?

A man draws a woman.

She is stripped bare.

Only their outlines; but even line segments taunt, beckon sarcastically, feign as if possibilities were not impossible. They are. I know this, now, and perhaps I will someday forget, God willing, someday, I will forget, but, now, I know this, and she sits still, and he stands firm, hand to the easel, but the canvas stays blank. Teach me; and they decline.


I am a writer. I know this, now. It is the easiest profession of all; and it is agony. Art is abstraction by nature; a shadow of what lies before us; which, of course, is only a shadow of what exists; and words, four times removed. They lie at the ready, always; but to use them is to fail. Plain and simple. Failure. Failure four times removed, failure to the fourth degree.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

You cannot hear me, and I wish I could convince you not to try, but you will. You are. And so, you, too, will join me in failure. To read is to fail. Failure five times removed.

It is simple, no? To meld the line segments. An imperfect alchemy, sure, but simple. It is no task to rearrange, less so to interpret, less so to let eyes run wild, never catching up, always trying, always failing. So, I work to remove it even further. Perhaps as the practice continues, as we accelerate demagnification, it becomes clear: the chain is a cycle, roundabout, running back into reality once enough reality has been destroyed. Perhaps language chases itself up its own asshole and reaches its origin through its intestines. I cannot know unless I work at it, shove C-4 into its anus and watch as ash and blood and feces rain down, drown. There, in the ruins, answers. Perhaps. I can do naught but guess, for I still live and breathe, as antithetical as those actions are, anymore.

And this? A cinch. Effortless; effort, less. Say everything, and, still, nothing. I am anything at any moment; after enough time, I am everything. This, is everything. And when everything is everything, nothing is anything, and the traps fall away, the shackles unbind, but freedom never did much for anybody, anyway.

The words will sit there. They will mock, and they will make me feel. Always have. Conditioning. Training. Practice. But there is no purpose, and if there is, there is no method to deduce it; you, I, we jam the segments together in hopes that it will arouse whatever it is meant to arouse in whoever is meant to be aroused. For the future. For a someday. No now. Never a now.

Nothing without, and nothing with.

A race we have already lost; and still we run, and we run, and we run.