The only choice is to write, to write in heat, in cold, in depth, in form, ad infinitum. The only option is all others. The definitive nature of language does not exist. To write in darkness is to write from the wells of the abyss. Below the depth of the horizon, the silver screen sprints its running image upon the consciousness of the audience– lowly sound imagines itself a symphony and what of the lyrical integration(s) that have once been promised by romantic grammarians and structuralists? Fragments of the collective consciousness swimming down history’s largest stream. Alongside the river of this illusion exists an entirely different albatross by wedding’s day– of form and spirit, form and formlessness. ‘I believe,’ said the siren, ‘that Spirit animates form.’
Writing on floors– writing on floors of time, the lyrical appendages of the socially adept bourgeoisie– the incorporated essence of the above same all, the upper echelons of the financially Spiritual. They want one truth. They want one so badly as to be told One truth. They want so badly One Truth. And they want so badly to believe so badly that they can handle one grain of truth. They is not they, they is not all, they is not all is not all. They don’t worship god. They worship their own interpretation of god. They worship material machines. It is these narratives unleashed that terrorize our world. Herds against herds. Collectives of identifications, internalized narratives programmed ’til extinction.
And once be all, forever time.