That a subject can be observed, under its own
volition saying, ‘I
am with persons unfamiliar with difference. I
from things than from those places that effect
distance.’ At one remove from the latter we have
them, their interests biting into former gains,
in a home stripped of nature and thus full
of the art of the ill.
Very seldom are reports raised, or any
imaginings of present
disappointments, great estimates by individuals
on malice, constantly juiced on malice. We are
ignorance makes of a defective reality out
actual monsters and all their quaint little bugs.
out that hearsay is a thing, too, like matter,
people as irritable conjecture or abstractions is
a particular quality of action to some. Acts
are not where we dislike the concrete. Existence
as arbitrary names, arbitrary nicks in the nominal,
sides to the qualified good, other indifferences
of the damned.
Our features fill up the portrait. We are caricatures
know enough to hate scarcity, anyone
can, and has previously.
To whom should the observed up and complain. An acute
wish to spite the moment, to let it see him,
enmity, to sit down disarmed and go some way
circumstance. If he can view it, quartered in its unforeseen
neutrality, like any other supposed adversary, respect
for like men
might turn as the ugly eye turns, not balked at
but put out.
He is an abstracted object, not in the way
disagreements; he and his distance are an implacable
hatred in a long room where the same person is
a face with no nose and a general to man. He found
you alone with your diversions, with your sympathies, alone
he seems contemptuous, he has nothing, and says
conceived him over a laugh. You heard something laughing
as he laughed.
Unranked subjects talked and talked, knowing
into the party hoping to find some virulent
strain, find a writer
tamed by some animal’s cough. The sort who bites himself.
That’s him, in shorts, making nothing of opposites, even in
company he is balanced in a vice. Another expert
may be one
lime cordial away from dull hatred but you try
him for that also,
for that and other offenses you merely wished
were somewhere given.
Before learning to earn you acquainted yourself
with the nearest
fool. It is as well he’s forgiven your other hand,
as your other hand
is profligate with secrets milled from the public, characters
shaken out of the given heart and spoken to kindly,
parts of their mothers and fathers as sport, as an aged
hauling its personable carbuncle of fellowship. You are
who has been told. You are sallow from all the ocular proof
of a face
on the ghost. Ghost mending this blue in the blunt matter.
Your dignity held up against ridicule is one edge
of the edited lie. He has invented _______ from scotch tape
a fondness for the anonymous just. Where you were not
just, so am I not the author of a moment. The moment can be known
or learned well, even as it comes out of the _______
Is it only the mask man dreads and do we only
if a human in shorts dredges the something for notions
Distance entertains us only partially, and people
compounded simplicities then work out their guesses
in answer to nothing derived from reality. We drive
into experience, mixing the only true general
up with models
abstracted from naked ones and zeros, the perfect
favoured over deformity.
Our being ill together, the mingled good
of our lives on the web
is not fault but whipped virtue. Our pride
not ours if not
encouraged by them. If I despair of vice,
my ‘if’ is courage,
a finely tuned one-‐-by-‐-one into the truly
long weakness, it bisects
pride, party of the proudly weak, named,
mean, learning all having is classified.