f only this were audio. my incessent references to audio invariably causing people to infer that i am illiterate. partially true. dyslexia of the third kind. blocking out the noise in the room is just as challanging as blocking out colors separating them and giving them back to you the viewer. time to revise is meaningful and expensive. they are talking about how rewriting paralyzes. but we are paralyzed by every gasp of air. generalizations are the simpleton’s forte. and i am a simpleton. confronted with a bio i cringe. if only i were tom phillips. none of the stray cats in the neighborhood would be shy about sharing their woes. interaction everywhere; we would retreat, admit it. i admit right now my dream temp job is as camille paglia’s chauffer. it’s sad that my dreams have been reduced to the climate temp. the way the dreams are untouchable like good fabric like the way they used to make seams. anyway the human touch is striving to be acknowledged and it’s warming, no? no name dropping here as i have always been a pauper, with a wood burning stove and a chain saw. but it’s the smells we all remember till we die. not even visible and we’re off ahhhh to memory. they’re talking about william’s genius for writing, experimenting. i must say i agree. he wants to escape as much as the next guy. and only cringing naked can we be honest in a crowd. (let’s not pretend we’re not crowded.) dirk is an amazing analyzer and he’s letting me wear his nietzsche baseball hat. a cheer? scratching an itch so long it bleeds and where the fuck are female compadres speaking of bleeding.

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