The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

still faster sullen

nothing here indicates interactivity or blockchains, no
augmented images, instead an imaginary which rides obdurate and
abject, a surface we have all seen before throwing us into the
world we have been thrown into, , ,

_those_ branches and leaves, irretrievable in space, _those_
intervals irretrievable in time, we're constant up against the
blunt of stoppage time, as if there were reprieve, all of us
live in alterity, this is fundamental, this misrecognition among
and through the familiar which appears almost dismissable, the
everyday always within and without, the virus of the everyday,
the faster and still faster an illusion, the still slower leaked
into the muted terror of decay, everything underlies everything,
everything without grace, everything grayed out, no monstrous
effects can change this sputtering of bodies, this _this_ that
asserts itself among spectators of motion artificially
compressed and entangled, call this the _hurtle_ of the world,
seize nothing, die, already dead,

and so forth and so forth, the word that comes to is _sullen,_
on this grey Nebraska day, but that's no excuse for bad video,
for useless repetition, for schoolboy or schoolgirl pranks,

i am warding off a return of any sort,

I was picked up. I ascended. He was picked off. He is picked out
and descended. She was picked up and she ascends. She will
ascend. She will run fast. She will not catch her. She will run
faster than she will run. I descended. I am "this schoolyard

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