SPETSOBJEKT

Spend the better part of a decade incorporating the cartoon you can barely remember watching when you were four, the one with the trains. Where you live, with their laughing, levity, apparent lack of struggle. . .it also seems tiring. But any lie claiming a condition of life only reinforces your unwillingness to go over there and slip: you too see a beautiful fabric and want to be near it, feel its fiber. And at that point in the workflow, anger tears, scare quotes, bite occlusions: all coeval, born with a scar, the typical penumbra of an ultra-realistic series colored grey. To descant no more on what happens in other lands—the wound’s just down the road, after all—is to watch fruit fall shallow from the tree.

Do you see it, hear what is new through what can be purchased? Like a shadow always in ellipsis, mourning the sip of coffee, crawling up the wall to announce you as its sister, to question you about the qualia of such solitary and non-familial lifestyles, about the #1 problem of non-identity, the law of natures, this baize-muffled quiet time you seek when nothing suitable can be found in the bright afternoon. Is it all that different from paintings of shipwrecks, or firefighters kneeling for a photo in front of the house ablaze?

The word on people is that there is an ultimate scarcity of writing, but systemic silence is far from the default, judging by this index of gestures for each bedtime, this sequence of rain blowing, rapturous acclaim for correct comma positions. In other words, digital fanfare is drawn from a seemingly infinite well of posturing, our desire to be both in front of the lens and the lens itself. So when “what a relief” becomes “what a release” down at mile-marker one dot portrait-of-the-past, Cairo, Ohia, you know you’re in for more than a post-Soviet aesthetic.

We’re in the #1 Safe Space and this is how we do, how we market. Now: senior social strategist where we build awesome stuff, and then: thirty-first employee of social kittens plus avocado toast jokes. Super lucky to be part of this family, to feel appreciated pushing yourself every damn day: so lucky to live the #{branded}life, to be so excited you’re going to ugly-cry.

Only the best times in this firmament, we cannot imagine moving anywhere else. Want to lay down and read the continuous glissando? Check out these photobooks: refugees, water towers, stray dogs, bus stops. Want to watch a documentary? We got Vietnam, capitalism, environment, internet. Looking to enter a wilderness of machines at war the exact moment work becomes more noble than play? Observe these vapor trails delimiting u-topos: no memory at work, no thinking at all. Nice, huh??

Awaken to her double-marked questions, typewritten double-spaces on the screen, Sporto’s sweaters and swagger, the God of Taxes, evil defined then perpetuated in story after story. You feel alive, you feel supported, you feel depressed, you feel isolated, you are freelance, you speak out about it, you feel proud, you tell us how proud others are of you, you repeat how lucky you are. I am telling you all of this to elicit sympathy and emotion, fam.

No plan for quality
Off anchor spring
We are not
Well, here we are

Somewhere far away, stringed instruments pluck themselves for the last time, ready to pull apart just for the sake of it, to remember the sound their fibers felt, ached. To end it all for wont of words: that’s the language provided among the din when there is no din. The pause drops like a bedsheet off a clothes line onto the wetter part of the grass, marking not dirt nor earth, only the beginning of what will have to be washed again.

Deep into the idea of home, staring at the sinner, you’ve been followed cross continents for so long: no need to work when working with no need is a crutch. Imagine if you fought fires, your only real possession a skull, smart enough to horse around.

Butterflies may drink blood when given the chance: they tunnel round the light, form a tunnel around the light. A litany of problems is only one kind of litany, not the problems themselves. Beneath those in need is a series of contemporary tapestries: there’s the usual structure full of people, they keep returning to a locked attic, someone sends us a mirror in the mail. In addition to our stones & diamonds, the formant stays the spectral peak, the identity suck. Who doesn’t like watching people watch people? Observe as a monolinguist and stay quiet, do not speak as a failure. You will see only a few incapable of desiring to plant an apricot tree.

Un-extinction brings two impossible things together. What will death be like: piano teacher, mountains, disaster recovery, dead mall? Eternity as that rare find heretofore ignored, meanwhile all the white we can conceive is there: looking inward with a momentum of compassion beyond distaste, middle-aged with few middle-aged preoccupations.

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