We that were once perfect are the first to be lost.
Flaw (imperfections make perfect).
Lacks and lulls in the fabric of meaning, a blanket drawn over the eyes allowing partial sight. These are misheard lyrics.
It is true that is not less good than its alternatives, a negative success campaigning against opponents.
A disintegration loop.
No loss of meaning, just an awareness of the potential loss of meaning.
Nobody has ownership anymore and there is nothing left to own.
This is not talk of scheme and canon or of the ways of judging art through calendars and capitalised movements. This is you not giving enough, and consciously, so as to restart the conscience of others.
Interfere will you? You’ll pay your dues!
This is the tawdry and ambitious, unfulfilled, you say nihilism is nothing compared to you.
is the identification and pursuit of the ungraspable.
And of course we have heard these words and indeed we have said them ourselves as well as hearing them from the mouths of others.
I once wrote a novel, which I half finished.
I still say that I wrote a novel.
It is not bravado or arrogance or confidence that fixes these words to me, it is habit.
I realise that I have not chosen to go anywhere
but by staying in this place
I have been chosen to go.