![[100 Challenge] Ocean_24](http://artnycnewyork.com/cdn/shop/articles/IMG_2539_1100x.jpg?v=1740791551)
Hey Buddy
Don’t draw a curtain of therapy over the blasted mine-hole of our despair. No tears will ever fill that depthless hole. Throw in the bodies, the gold, the temporary loves. If there’s one thing: feel the hole.
If the world is a dilapidated echo of a story, what was the original story (golden age, and the MYTHs told during the golden age)? And we subsist inside this diapidated story like squatters, like someone’s scrawlings inside a children’s book of fairy tales.
“All ages are cotemporraneous” -Pound
This culture is so fucked up. They say we're crazy if we start talking to things as if they were animate. As if they could hear. As if they existed. As if we might deign to respect them. As if they might whisper back. As if we were worth it. As if the world mattered. Any of these things are too much for this culture. And so we are relegated to our hushed mumblings, like these, to the glued plywood of this scarred and taken-for-granted kitchen table. A table that has seen so much, has borne so much weight, given so much life, and the living tree-wood of which has endured consequences that I will never know.
Hey buddy.
If you're still alive down there, send a passenger pigeon.
