Enter the redaction, an hour of mistranslation. It was never easy. The continual
referents to AporIa are the point. Footnotes, slantwise, the navel-gazing knows no
bounds. There is no return. An afterthought eats its own tail. Syntax is in stock and
vogue. Given enough space-time, abstractions can untether the self from the I. The
art was hung too high. This can turn into a name. You spent too long looking up at
the self and now. Craquelure dances like a bastard across your face in conceptual
ways. A slight moth perching on a hint of moon, estranging imagery. The tv flickers
an alibi. We engage the ink without context. The etceteras matter less. We become
stuck in a page of our own I. You will need a year to complete an afterthought.
Here’s the thing, on the surface, with the rest of you ninnies. Here’s another,
unopened. The syntax, once again, the deadpan. Their ilk will return, re-volta. If
redactions reach uroboric;— a needless repetition in mistranslation and errata, the
reaction of the hour is turned into a name. I have the zeugma, the zeitgeist of a
good time, asking how much of this self is performative, anachronistic, versus.