We belong to a party where the champagne has been drunk free and done with. We tumble in a turnabout where there is no exit, no natural recourse to our driving, not mindlessly, just without a remembrance of guilt. The family in the lily pool of entertainment embellishes the stubborn means that makes means lacking. The heavy petting hinges out an acute bravado, one that makes monsters of those we love. From Vesuvius to the shack story of speech, we are still stuck in our own selves, however ashen those words may become. This is not to imagine a society in falseworks or furnishing the world like a Rousseau-ian glove. No, no many is so pat a pattern of touchstones. The trample of hooves stood near and dear over me, nevertheless makes one succumb. The quotidian gestural nuance of indexes and faces leaves such matters un-absolvable. The structures of absence leave nothing left but absence and the fact of so remains so. I still call absence, by being a word, being a thing, to be nothing but a general assumption that nothing means something. If we are left with nothing but the village logic of another absence makes our nothing greater, we are left with nothing but our own futures, as hollow and fragile as dust. But dust remains a substance of furniture we blot out, wipe away, out of tidiness, of order, of general health and cleanliness. The permanence of what we wipe away renders us incognizant of what is there, that nothing can be wiped away either by cloth or sword or swipe. At our party, the modernity of knowledge only causes us to lose sight even further, rendered in miniscule details that merely wipe away the nothing that we’ve always felt we lacked. We’ve burned books in order to bond with the history we know not well. We glean all material out of habit and sugar-coated spite, rendering the fiction that we have some choice nervously approaching defeat. The domestic markets of sublime are shaded with naïve symbolism that is tested in order to not be defeated by purposed psychology. Save we presuppose our silhouette as an angular attraction, the reflection of that above, our sturdy structures of pain remain effortless. We press our sex against a glass so contoured to seem fitting, only waiting for a reflection. Instead, we receive neither glad-handing reflection nor connection, only a cold base with which we are able to achieve some sort of friction however much a fiction it might be. Our fixations, on rubbing, stabbing, flecking, fondling, stroking, scraping, are so aggregate to the cause of the problem that it makes causes obsolete. We drape the swag with enough cause to cause cancer in our most healthy absolutes. The tum-drum-drum-drum of a ninety minute film can create a fantasy out of light and dark and yet still leave us in the theater, in the dark. We survive on the sidewalks only because they are against the walks. How a culturally malfunctioning reposition of 19th century thought can make life easier, or, as such, better to attain. In the script we follow, description as dream, as never remembered wholly. I said to my government of ligatures: are we there yet? We pause, we sustain the frustration there within, we find the comfort in our creature. We recapitalize our not knowing with nothing, a substance we all agree can be the substance we can agree upon. Our known compounds are not known enough to forfeit our forgeries of our own spent upon gorge. To wit: the theater has no wit and is, therefore, a failure, at least in traditionally comedic terms. The essence of our being, our other nothingness, is a tragedy that we rise with the implicit implication that there is a hero somewhere there. We go bust in our hand jobs to minor infractions of frequency. We always decide a deliciousness in terms of finding another to do the feeding. This isn’t news, this is just the cheese against the grain of whole wheat crackers. Any shift in tone is clearly intentional. I once heard a Hebrew say something, and it was always a verb. I saw a nigger standing on the same line as I was, only it was dark so I didn’t see him when I punched him in the face. That faggot only become so once he left the room and then he really got fucked up the ass. That chick was a good lay, with juicy breasts with a side of gravy. And Asians are always easy, the last bastion of unquestioned racism, so go fuck yourself if you don’t like it and you probably do because you’re a negro faggot jew who likes to watch, so there. As anyone else, we try it for a fit. But finding we’ve gained to much weight, we end up calling fat-ass. Our health be damned. We think of design as decoration, but it’s just our lives, splayed out as art (pretending). We echo the echo of our hummed lullabies, like the worst person we could be. It isn’t unusual to be too apathetic to be suicidal; perhaps it’s even the perpetual state nowadays. Banking on limitless, the scuttle surrounds each action like a breast around a nipple. Such is the burden of growing up a masturbating erect. Imagine every beautiful photograph within the context of the photographer’s own image, that of himself. Now picture the photograph. It accumulates in a tint of shivering. Now picture the photograph in the context of feeling, felt at this exactly moment. Now try to feel what the photograph is trying to convey, setting aside your feeling at this exact moment. Try this again for a week. After a week, look at the photograph, again in the context of the photographer, allowing for an accumulation of feeling spent over the past week. What has changed? What has stayed the same? Now picture an absence of the picture and continue to feel the feelings accumulated over the past week. Now picture the photographer.