The pictures by the bed are by artists, framed cheaply, in them, on the wall.
In a scene focused upon movement, the still man produces a revolution through lethargy. I am resisting, actively with passivity, and reacting against all of your vitesse. This is a protest against ambition manifesting itself not through creation, but fufilment of what I am supposed to be, my assimilation of affect. Imagine a symphony played out in a vacuum, the curtains peeling back like the folds of a skirt to reveal no audience hearing nothing.
I have spent many hours trying to build song like a mosaic, notes like tiles and fingers are cement but my failure rises without foundations; a lack of theory and purpose, stemming from a lack of theory and purpose.
Read words on Futurism, searched for Andre Rublev on file-share, examined the history of free improvisation via Derek Bailey and careful printing of The Wire, rested upon glossy leaflet for the Projectile Anarchy Festival, see page 117 for Treptower and Sowjetisches Ehrenmal, Constellation records, tripped over B.S. Johnson Omnibus all day, loved Bill Callaghan’s constant trial. No avoiding the threat of influence, not threat as such, but shadow.
People outside, under glorious glorious glorious sunny skies. I will stay in again.