Approaching this …
An unnameable
Purposive
Anguish,
I am reminded
How all the little separations:
When you go to the studio
For a ‘shoot’
Or off into the land of virtual alterity
(When I,
like a nursling babe,
must tolerate the absence of some object of my desire)
Prepares me for the most seismic rift becoming us.
Nausea becomes me as I contemplate that disunion;
Metaphysics can’t help me then. Then I will crumble into millions of little pieces; tears to wash away the debris. There will be nothing left. No-thing will behold me,
Cherish me,
Love me.
It will be like someone untied that balloon and let it float away and I could only watch it getting further and further out of sight.
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