The history of art is silence.

The art of history is silence.

The silence of art is history.

The art of silence is history.

The silence of history is art.

The history of silence is art.

Dear Hunger and to my fellow Pain,

I do my best. I’ve lived inside the heart, but the cold has crept in. The bones are weak, and the flesh is warm. Tell me how to be the skin. We will be together forever, won’t we?

Dearly, Joseph

Poor Harold Grand Scare Murder Error

Gravy essed along it when if fires meant lost purses,

Mister Tray gone Miss Listen To Me,

Grand scrap mist missed Miss Cinnamon diction Mary,

Millicent morrow armor plateless faces in people places,

Marital instructor miser man in grief

Listlessly listing lavish tea cups meant rivals unraveled

The beastly snickerer smirked, the rivals trusted the nation.

The book is an architecture, i can hardly imagine it any other way, just as a labyrinthine subterranean complex. Rooms open into caverns of bright summer days, farewells at seaports, hotel rooms, and apartments. The corridors are non places non spaces, they are the narrator, perhaps. The narrator walks the corridors opening doors leading the reader through the building.

it is shapeless

it is beyond metaphor

it is like a wind

it slips along a fault line

like a mountain

onto traffic