again whenever it ran down but found a deeper wound of what we only had one symptom of and nothing more of this was known. 9. …how cool and lovely. Time, the strangest thing that’s going on, the looping thing that happens in syntax, subjunctively, conditionally, articulately but never to return organically. That fact means everything to us, eventually being startling: our own drowning. Our dissolution. 114 |
The random! fallen into reality! just this way! look at it. A cabaret. What have I done—it’s yet again! More electronic dust? More phoneme pulse? How much information do you need in the game of information? How many proportionate subsets of interchange might be suggested? Can the tiniest points be marked? I will reconstruct them, sized to the moment, while the evanescent loft of otherness surges with a cresting flash-flood, into this very narrow, inescapable spot. 10. Why are elegies mainly so busy, fussy-gussy like an over-fancy gown? Figures coming and going, multiple deities, songs, leaves, creatures’ account books, nymphs, other random, mythological and allusive stuff, often wordy, chock-a-block with names, parades, and ceremonies, with elongating lists, syntaxes that spend time looping around in all plausible directions while nonetheless traveling from this backwards backwoods to forward? Duh. Rhetorical questions.