a sort of culminating aria, sung from the ground with the knife in the chest

We are back. Back with a vengeance. Why vengeance? Why not back with a bad case of ennui? Bathed in demotivated disaffection. If we are going to be back, we mine as well have some score settling in mind.

The scroll circulating throughout the underground pop up galleries in Mitte Berlin is comprised of Wraths and vendettas and miscellany trivia crawled on toilet stalls of biker bars in the tri-state area. Not like the staked claims of teenage couples who defile a tree with a carved declamation of name plus name. The scroll is not a palimpsest and yet all the bright young men like to show that they know what that means by saying it is. As though pronouncing a modish word correctly could cover up the fact that they cannot make enough money doing what they love for long enough to do it while they still love it. As though it all isn’t just compensation, in one form or another.

Vengeance, tho. Somehow it strikes me as plausible, if not logical, defensible, if not persuasive, to keep delaying slipping back into sleep and drawing comfort from the idea that no matter what I will rise with the sun. As though taking vengeance on tomorrow’s self as a kind of extending the debt forward for the shit yesterday’s self pulled in putting me here right now.

“ - Screw you “

“ - no screw you “

that kind of thing. And that is not logical but plausible, the deferral

of sleep

as a continuity of self-sabotage and abasement.

we are back. In the full indefensible regalia of scatterbrained insomnia.