This is a photo borne of desperation. Tired and ready for bed, I lumbered over my mattress like a decrepit feral ghoul and snapped a pic of the only thing near me: my curtains. What do they say now? I’m “down bad”, honestly. It’s pathetic. But I can’t let this flickering flame be snuffed out. Not now.
Like the picture of Dorian Gray, this documentation of one man’s life is a repository for trauma and aging, except instead of preserving my living body and mind in perfect youth and vitality, it casts only further absurdity upon the life it seeks to represent. A phantom of a phantom, a doppelgänger only half as frightening as the Frankenstein’s monster that walks among living men day by day across the German landscape.
Look at this, man, I got nothing. Just word salad. Should be finished with The Crying of Lot 49 very soon though. Am definitely pumped to discuss that one.
Anyway, carry on. Nothing to see here.
Catch you tomorrow.
Nick
Nick Denardi 