Writing languishes behind the other arts,

especially painting, as if a picture were really worth a thousand words. Nevermind, it’s all the same really, the will to express forming scratches on the slate of experience directly or indirectly like drug-induced orgasm or the real thing in all the glorious lugubriousness of its meanderthal mess. You get the point regardless, if you’re lucky, if there really is a point, to all the lines holding hands forming meanings in the minds of men whether the critics approve or not.

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