The audience flips through pages of a novel it’ll never read.
The entirety of the process becomes art. The way a writer dissolves and transmutes pain and sorrow becomes art. The way a writer sculpts language is art. The language of the writer is imprinted with the linguistic DNA. The deconstruction and reconstruction of symbols, language, structure, characters, imagery, flow, worlds and foundations is it. The study of fictions is often the subject: an understanding of worlds beyond our own.
Imagine the worlds of oceans, deep in the abyss. Hang on like a string. Watch as the narrative gasps for air. The fisherman waits. Narratives like fish in pools. The language in between the infinite beyond. One day, the unfolding of all narratives—the non-thing entity. The fine line of absolute discretion, the creative process that is the 1st and only draft, the creative process that enters and exits the story: the mind alive.
Wondering aloud the scripture of what they are experiencing, staring at the screens of the theater. An audience tentatively pondering the elixir they are reading. Lectures gone unused, unloved. The guts of all symbolism alive in the structure and bones of the story. The structure of creation is a bloody process. In a world of impossible, if only this could be real.
The structure of metaphors, unlock all truths.
Write ungodly things beautifully.
Write without a net.
This is exploratory literary surgery.
Write the narrative as it occurs.
Write like someone who gives a shit about immortality.
Write like David Foster Wallace with a gun to your head.