Stranger. You are my everything. The world is full of people who lean on the belly of tomorrow's rising sun. Yet it is the stranger, the outline of limbs and torso, of a mind encased with handfuls of hair, that I invest myself in. Should I blame other people's stories? But of course, I don't believe in blame. Oh those images and words spinning knots of seductive faux figures, they're as much mine as they are others. I remember someone once told me "No, the people I write about are made up..well not really, but I'm talking to no one... or no one I really know. It's just people." Just people. Are people so often constructed that we've nonchalantly crafted too many ideas of everybody and now the only decent task left to exhibit is to staple all these extra copies in a bundle for storage? It's really our physical reality that is the most incoherent, that fails us most.
*B041 by MADEIN.
"In my whole life I never thought I'd have to clean a piece of art with a vacuum cleaner! Bring out the dyson!"
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