the saddest blog that ever was 4.05.2004: "below, like a constellation whose configured stars only hazard to describe the figure imposed upon them by the tyranny of ancient imagination, where Argo in the southern sky is seen only with an inner eye of memory not one's own..." -- gaddis i send another letter traveling across Arnold's darkling plain of sea where ignorant armies clash by night and the souls of dead Huguenots find their plight echoed in naught save Protestant genealogy... dear tilly: language as, language is, the body of thought-in-flesh. it is not an envelope of thought, it is never being thought's sealed geometric container in which thought travels from one isolated heart to head to hand to an other through pure objectless air as in a vacuum. breton says in World: "And the carpet dies like waves." what the hell kind of welt is that? i think you know. It is a world composed of whores and turtles and wild blueberries, a hybrid world of whortles and wildberries and gasoline-electric cars and robots and the women who fuel them. a world we tread upon softly and at night, before the palm of morning hits us and we are blinded by our own jealousy of each other's sight. love(,) the one who leaves you. Blog // 3:51 PM Comment ______________________ Comments: <$BlogCommentBody$> # posted by (0) comments <$BlogCommentAuthor$> : <$BlogCommentDateTime$> <$BlogCommentDeleteIcon$> Post a Comment
"below, like a constellation whose configured stars only hazard to describe the figure imposed upon them by the tyranny of ancient imagination, where Argo in the southern sky is seen only with an inner eye of memory not one's own..." -- gaddis i send another letter traveling across Arnold's darkling plain of sea where ignorant armies clash by night and the souls of dead Huguenots find their plight echoed in naught save Protestant genealogy... dear tilly: language as, language is, the body of thought-in-flesh. it is not an envelope of thought, it is never being thought's sealed geometric container in which thought travels from one isolated heart to head to hand to an other through pure objectless air as in a vacuum. breton says in World: "And the carpet dies like waves." what the hell kind of welt is that? i think you know. It is a world composed of whores and turtles and wild blueberries, a hybrid world of whortles and wildberries and gasoline-electric cars and robots and the women who fuel them. a world we tread upon softly and at night, before the palm of morning hits us and we are blinded by our own jealousy of each other's sight. love(,) the one who leaves you. Blog // 3:51 PM Comment
