“In
Chicago, your Face is not a Face, but
rather, the Grandest of
Impressionistic Strokes. A Stroke, whose very Gesture, is of the
utmost Purity: a Monument to my own
irrational Seams which Refuse to
Assume the Position of a fixed Subject;
yet how I find myself fixated, Daily,
on the very idea of *this Gesture, of *this Remembering of your Face in my
Face: is a means to not make Meaning,
per se, but moreso, to Object to any
Object that might fix itself upon,
and Transform your Face, and thus, my own Remembrance of your Face, into a
Subject, in Stone. In Other Words: *this
is the very Refusal to allow your
Face to End where the Endwhere is a
Life rocked by Death by the Desire to never say again: “How I Wish (in) *this
to be yet again.”
