Part Of The Strength Of

Alone With Our Madness And Favorite Flower We See That There Really Is Nothing Left To Write About. Or Rather, It Is Necessary To Write About The Same Old Things In The Same Way, Repeating The Same Things Over And Over For Love To Continue And Be Gradually Different.

Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Its A Bit Mad. Too Bad, I Mean, That Getting To Know Each Just For A Fleeting Second Must Be Replaced By Unperfect Knowledge Of The Featureless Whole Like Some Pocket History Of The World, So General As To Constitute A Sob Or Wail

And Just As There Are No Words For The Surface, That Is, No Words To Say What It Really Is, That It Is Not Superficial But A Visible Core, Then There Is No Way Out Of The Problem Of Pathos Vs. Experience.

This Whole Moment Is The Groin Of A Borborygmic Giant Who Even Now Is Rolling Over On Us In His Sleep.