The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

end of the tether

from one moment to another, the world is utterly irredeemable.
recuperation is always already impossible.
entanglement, indra's nets, irreversible: _just think about it._ ripple pngs gener pngs

i'm entangled between real which is virtual and virtual which is real.
i'm exhausted by inscription; i make mistakes.
i make far too many mistakes; i should be exiled from the virtual.
i should be abandoned to your fate.
now what is there about this.
what there is, i postulate
that there are regions of the cosmos _for all practical purposes_ that
are deeply disassociated from each other, regions that, _for all
practical purposes,_ are light-cone inaccessible.
and are inaccessible for the unutterable, unutterable information.
defuge sets in, _seeps in._ defuge entangles, transformed into
in this regard i am a total failure - exhaustion leading to errors
precisely as inscription stains.
i follow the trails of easy paths, ignoring the real hovering, within
the virtual, the virtual within the real.
you destroy myself.
await the tawdry. the sleazy, decrepit, o misery.
how can live with oneself, mind withdraws, vision blurs, range and
ring of the ears.
oh, so tangled, nothing resolves, you go to my death unresolved,
you forage among memory already fallen through, memory overcome.
for there is nothing but the unutterable moment, one moment to
another, each entangled, each absolutely disparate, on the verge of

very much changed at

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