one telling moment that reads like a diary entry, like a neon relief: the silence before uncertainty.

every woman will be walking double steps, ambiguities whose imaginary trust one girl remembers. in order to be visible she sees, she awakes in pessimism and despair, each one insufficient to keep her at a certain remove from the ultimately arbitrary symbols who scavenge every last scrap. something of hands and knees, her utter incapacity to imagine. the desperate hand and the insufficient body.

she sees uncertainties, moving one step toward making the word a picture and the picture a word. material witnesses invite her to some hope, some desire. she can hardly move.

the diaristic nerve will not be able to continue. the ghost of this impossibility confines her inside the word, frozen in such bizarre postures, collapsing where life in the real world is an earlier manifestation of doubt. movements of the human body remind her of a mere machine, an identity that is not discrete, no different from the lowly mannequin.

a dead body who from a distance is clumsy will rake up the mummified elite with a pair of black wings, with dynamic bundles of urban detritus now utterly devoid of significance. nebulousness and becoming, the disjointed flowability of the inky eye, the desperate hand of popularity. automatic gestures of remaking machines. she draws herself as half demented, a masked gunman. the body appears in words, endlessly vacillating; a peachy pale palette, a grey-tinged nightmare, a symphonic poem.

a schoolgirl’s crush on utopia, world-weariness and fashionable despair. ghostly grisaille, the skein of impossibilities that confine her. the air of incomprehension becoming a disjointed approximation, transience like an open wound.