That words have edges is an insight most vivid
I felt newly precise to have just grazed it like the briefly valid distance between myself and what I create is to crave nothing
I felt like all of life was a myth and we all began by dying into a sanctuary where trite fables of individuality enter into the social network like no body's ghost heart, transplant, save our seas, save our frantic asses, brave for the candlelit future with your fists in that wax like a newfangled curator, re-staging the artifacts became typical all Fred Wilson whatever but still beautiful and necessary like salt carried on a breeze of fallen ecstasy toward the balk of new ignition, rev, revelator, reverend, all my prayers pretend how the story makes you want to fall asleep in your own unbelievably aloof arms, nudging the pedal of his gun like it was long ago that these machines could come undone and now that we are these machines and incorruptible and always whole and now what kind of excuses do we make for our insistent regulatory romanceless more or less camp of western eyes and anti-celebration and our saviors are suddenly
I was always in love, that's my excuse, and every man who could bring me to life, who could animate me like that, could kill me too. That's a risk I can't refuse
He was the suicidal one and I was the one in love with whatever seduced him into new beginnings We try to call it by any other name
