A massacre will always be followed by another in a cultural web of leaves and wholly reveal its fragile interventions. The verbal impunity of eternal life comes from eating the final sentences of eviction. It takes root in the separable categories of a body where necessity flowers its own texture. Here, absence is ladled with ambiguity. Visual centuries of hours have made this their central conduct.
Erratic arms depict the neck.
Just as a gate predictably allows us to enter into a field of vision, centuries strand from one another, created but homeless. Holes and nests are unthinkable and wet has a growing darkness about it. You smell of wood and stone. It has no body, this narrative arrow, this half twine. It is before the stunned mind like beautiful sheep all blue, all purple, all scarlet stuff.