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We belong to a party where the champagne has
been drunk free and done with. We tumble in a turnabout where there is no exit,
no natural recourse to our driving, not mindlessly, just without a remembrance
of guilt. The family in the lily pool of entertainment embellishes the stubborn
means that makes means lacking. The heavy petting hinges out an acute bravado,
one that makes monsters of those we love. From Vesuvius to the shack story of
speech, we are still stuck in our own selves, however ashen those words may
become. This is not to imagine a society in falseworks or furnishing the world
like a Rousseau-ian glove. No, no many is so pat a pattern of touchstones. The
trample of hooves stood near and dear over me, nevertheless makes one succumb.
The quotidian gestural nuance of indexes and faces leaves such matters
un-absolvable. The structures of absence leave nothing left but absence and the
fact of so remains so. I still call absence, by being a word, being a thing, to
be nothing but a general assumption that nothing means something. If we are
left with nothing but the village logic of another absence makes our nothing
greater, we are left with nothing but our own futures, as hollow and fragile as
dust. But dust remains a substance of furniture we blot out, wipe away, out of
tidiness, of order, of general health and cleanliness. The permanence of what
we wipe away renders us incognizant of what is there, that nothing can be wiped
away either by cloth or sword or swipe. At our party, the modernity of
knowledge only causes us to lose sight even further, rendered in miniscule
details that merely wipe away the nothing that we’ve always felt we lacked.
We’ve burned books in order to bond with the history we know not well. We glean
all material out of habit and sugar-coated spite, rendering the fiction that we
have some choice nervously approaching defeat. The domestic markets of sublime
are shaded with naïve symbolism that is tested in order to not be defeated by
purposed psych