Tuesday, October 12, 2004

The future and the past that must always be sieved through the present before they can be harnessed into the project of being. And in this interplay of hierarchy and conditionality, my brains stand muddled. In a hazy, unstructured, haphazard manner, it makes sense as all chaos does. It is a good book. And it claims to write about violence. And in a manner it does. Between lucid and lurid, its work is complete. And I need to be able to think about it in a manner befitting perpetrator and victim alike.

Music plays, lights shine, kettle whistles. Between my world and that, a few hundred thousand miles and some. Time, place, space, nothing matches. My anachronisms are complete.

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