Saturday, February 12, 2005

The lines of the face are eluding my is all an amorphous mess and mass, awaiting force, one way or the other. Perish or preserve, dissolve or resolve...really bad rhyme I know!

Words notwithstanding, this deserves closure. Really. The problem is that it hasn't been opened enough to close. Postmodern and ironical and strange and funny and insignificant and sad. And I haven't the heart to relegate it to sepia pictures and dog-eared albums. Yet. Much of my activity seems to concentrate on aesthetic control over the past and sensory control over the present. Feel just enough to make it pretty enough to douse in formaldehyde. My scientific origins are serving me well. Inspite of all the crummy consciousness of self and soul. All other conditions remaining constant, I will continue to run without understanding what running entails.In the long run, I am definitely dead.

No comments: