It Was Only As I Wrote About

I Met Someone Who Lives In An Elevator.

In The Sea Of Words, The In Print Is Foam, Surf Bubbles Riding The Top. And It's A Dark Sea, And Deep, Where Divers Need Lights On Their Helmets And Would Perish At The Lower Depths.

Artists Freeze Themselves Into These Weird Postures That Are Meant To Be Impressive And Involving, Then They Fling Them Out Into The World Like Polaroids, And Then They Move On. And I'm Stuck In This Intense Relationship To The Polaroid.

There's Something About The Rhythms Of Language That Correspond To The Rhythms Of Our Own Bodies.

Yet I'm Making A Book And I'm Going To Care Immensely About What Words Get Bound In The Pages, And I Want The Object To Look Good. I Won't Believe In It And It Won't Be Real To Me Until There's A Finished Book I Can Hold.