I come to this project out of a sense of duty but also possibility. One wants to see what will happen when language - curtailed by form - is freed of its tethers. The result was an overly critical narrative that was judgemental and disapproving of both humanity and society. Well, plagiarism remains an issue unless you're invested in repetition.
Like shrinking closet space for those wedded to keeping pace with fashion. Thus - without divulging sources - I experienced riotous excursions with privileged glimpses of a certain interior landscape. It was bells, it was carols, it was men who were not afraid to kiss rocks. As if to say. Or rather, as if this thus makes the language of criticality a meta-narrative that represses any effort to begin anew.
A hibernating newt? He saw the river move sluggishly beneath mounds of ice and snow and it reminded him of his father who had died years earlier without ever having run for political office. You can dream and I can blow up balloons just to pop them. She invited me to a parade in honor of Minerva. I fell asleep imagining what I would say to you, having dreamed of us together all these years.
One weeps fecund tears. One reads Wordsworth again and finally understands genius. When cold, approach a working stove. I plucked a turkey feather off the trail and went on struggling with multiple strains of thought. Often it seems to start just when you reach the terminus.