What it's not. A cynical deconstruction of my life at present, clearing up, codifying. A clammering subterfuge of handwashing, with reflections of memories a partial exposure of the self in the post. It is. A personal creative voice not intended for publication unless it is somehow successful in some therapeutic sense. A subjunctive Fuselage of subjectification. A reduction of my formal thinking into an institutional collecton of meaning.. This is a work, not solid, totally unabridged, a representation in words of leads without a sense of direction for the purposes of a novel, which may never be. Bring the novel back into the novel, we are the melodies of two different imaginaries. As with ordinary taste, writing is for writing, with which each element each word, consists of a stitch in time. It can be anything, an atom of meaning a phrase as long as it is good, no meaning goes without adding to the mosaic of strange days. The worlds inhabited by imagination are impressive at the least, threads of unreality that resist linearisation. They interact in unknown places.
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