Painters, Especially American Painters Since The Second

Endings Are Elusive, Middles Are Nowhere To Be Found, But Worst Of All Is To Begin, To Begin, To Begin.

And I Sat There Getting Drunker And Drunker And More In Love And More In Love.

The Death Of God Left The Angels In A Strange Position. They Were Overtaken Suddenly By A Fundamental Question. One Can Attempt To Imagine The Moment. How Did They Look At The Instant The Question Invaded Them, Flooding The Angelic Consciousness, Taking Hold With Terrifying Force? The Question Was, "what Are Angels?" New To Questioning, Unaccustomed To Terror, Unskilled In Aloneness, The Angels (we Assume) Fell Into Despair.

The World Is Sagging, Snagging, Scaling, Spalling, Pilling, Pinging, Pitting, Warping, Checking, Fading, Chipping, Cracking, Yellowing, Leaking, Stalling, Shrinking, And In Dynamic Unbalance.

Is Death That Which Gives Meaning To Life? And I Said, No, Life Is That Which Gives Meaning To Life.