wounding

my writing of infinite depth
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my writing is my most important medium. it lacks the seduction of image
and sound, of performance and the smell of bodies; it lacks the arousal
accompanying the dreams or deliriums of the residue of flesh. instead,
there is always a substitution: that of the body flailing behind the
horse-drawn cart, bouncing from field to field, until not even the bones
are left, just the broken skein of tissues that once harbored thought.
it's here in this delirium that thought is born, out of exigency, out of
urgency, before its disappearance into the lost furniture of the world.
but it's where depth occurs in my work; nowhere else are wonder and beauty

 
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