A.Journal

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Challenging

The ghost of new music.

Challenging

A delicate ship constructed out of the flotsam of spy dramas and revenge fantasies sails headlong toward this rock, where it will shatter into a thousand lacerating crystals.

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His dedication to metaphor is respectable, obfuscatory, serene -- a probable disciple of Dositeo Fernandez.

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According to Dositeo Fernandez, the market has no edges, it is an amorphous, asexual blob.

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A flash of inspiration? He seems to be drowning in it.

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Burning the image into the gelatin silver of her amygdala.

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Failed artist types always have a few pale downward shots of their own genitals stashed somewhere. She's seen it.

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Four hearts, four points of light, waiting for you to draw the constellation between them.

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You are a cosmic mystery. Get up there, into the void. You could be the first to expose it as a fraud.

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Millions-billions dead. And more.

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Squinting, you overlay the image of the phantom you saw at the Palace of Culture on top of this lanky young fuck.

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Squinting, you overlay the image of Nestor from his t-shirt on top of this lanky young fuck.

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Squinting, you overlay the image of Nestor you've seen in a hundred faded murals on top of this lanky young fuck.

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Bad is good, good is bad, and everything is shit. Got it.

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If wretched and rancid are good... is 'grandma' an insult or a compliment...?

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'Did it mean nothing?'

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You see it: the bullet's perfect trajectory, and blood arcing in sunlight. One shot rippling across time. History wobbles like a drunk on a quay.

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Uttered with great solemnity one instant then spat out like curses the next. They seemed to take on their own solidity, detached from any human situation.

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Great art deserves exhibiting.

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Lightning flash! Thunder! A crackle of electricity in the air.

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Valkyrie pop. Chants of war.

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It emanates the desperation of the battlefield, the ugly cunning of guerillas fabricating weapons of war from out of nothing but saliva and bolts.

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A flower on the precipice.

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A likely story. Artists are the world's most unrepentant narcs.

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Close enough to touch shadows.

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The machine is a cyclops. Its other monitors are ancillary, this one watches.

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In the crowded rooms of your life, faces fragment into variations of themselves.

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Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

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Void is exactly what it is. The body is weight, presence -- the mind is conjecture, absence.

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By HOLOCENE's logic, you bear none of the blame for what happened. Everything you did was an expression of institutional logic.

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Sometimes he recites them to himself, when the darkness feels total enough.

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Tasting a strange syntax.

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Nothing but the empty space he once deformed.

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The breath of obsolescence whispers its song. A lullaby of bodily decay.

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By 'ill'... does he mean 'sick'? As in, you and your Crew?

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An Ultra Violeta lyric, maybe. You can imagine her saying those words.

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A name from legend. A mythical creature.

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CASCADE, hero of all mankind!

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The artist has broken the boundaries of the panel to traverse time and space, the Hombre slithering through a chiarascuro dreamscape.

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The words sing above the quiet hum of the machines in the room. They ascend through the ceiling, past the clouds that line the world, entering a realm lit perenially by the shimmer of godbeams.

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An obscure pleasure, one only accessible to sensitive minds.

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Whistling a new melody into existence. A dance step in the mud. The rasp of a hand-plane against cedar. Wonders yet unmapped.

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Infused with transcendant meaning, somewhere between a symbol and the thing it represents, the junior negotiator's conception of the gap escapes definition.

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A poorly conceived, underbaked hodgepodge of old and modern Developed World languages -- mostly from Mircea and Ile-de-Söze.

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Picture a hundred guitars connected to a single amp, strumming all at once.

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Symbols, repeated over and over -- a quiet process of attrition.

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Malignant growths, forever squirming against each other.

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It's a talisman, not a functional object. It's imbued with whatever Ramses feels towards you.

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Just like the autumn fireworks you used to watch from your window as a child.