Fuck You!

Mina Loy is incapable of containing these hours. The empty felt board is healing itself and I have nothing but water, and dead finger nails by my wrists. It has never gone away. The memories of a future anterior; flirting with the black bile as it returns. The digitization of geography allows for a borrowed iconography at least. Instead of an absence, an archeaology of the technologies of communications, a staged gaze, a Sunday photographer. Re-transfering it, I come across 11 or so instances where a neutral ground could have existed. One, very early on, appears as the story never told. The post-Heideggerian gesture of the call. A cull, most likely. Breaths through car windows. Bewildered gestures of unresolved eroticism on the ocassion of contact. Midnight showers get punctured by fragmented monolgues, rarely uttered. The bathroom as sanctuary as mind. The books can not stand this. Contracts of filiality. You still must have my copy of Brahms' violin concerto. Again, for the third time, what you perverted has to allow for its non-tactile simulation.