I'm beginning to think of this blog as less of a safe space for writing, and more of a white elephant with an eight year burden on its back. I have my hunches that the death of this beautiful endless canvas will only occur alongside the birth of an alternative space, but this remains to be seen. Recently I have seen the graven images of a dead person's imagination being dismantled by the imagined needs of the living, haunted by exhumation notices around the old cemetery. Yet I am compelled to believe that time will surely render all things lifeless, that nature will bury the living under her accretions. I'm beginning to think of speech as unfounded incoherent babble, something vestigial that sprouted out of necessity. I am thinking of empty homes, fully furnished, peopled with faint vessels containing various levels of consciousness. I'm holding a cheap mug and standing by the kitchen doorway looking at you search the television for the exit worrying for the people who spend their days inside. You drag the walking frame behind you like hauling a dead dog to its grave.
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