Big bully of the liberated self taking the big stand, going for self-made success story stature, staring down all the hey you with your big ways-themed jeering, unflinching at feigning fruit-hurlers. Too brief the warning hum before the brain-creasing screech of loudspeaker feedback surges, then subsides.
Fill books.
No response to this, the crowd is so scandalized at having been distressed that it has no reponse to being commanded.
Enough masquerading about in the found-art trappings of allegorical stalemate.
Fighting words these in any hall of the self-dazzled, in this roomful of passionate mummers, a positive calling out.
Enough sham battles and enough sham diplomacy. Enough fucking fantasized conversations, enough camel urine production, enough I have the mind of a smoker approaches, more risk. This is not brinksmanship.
There is an inability to concentrate so utter that it brings tears, the level of inattention rockets so far so fast as to pierce the cloudhide of a briny fourth dimension where grief must go.
The work can be for the expression of emotion.
The frightened withdrawal from the sweeping force in all its forms, the jerk away from bulging passions, the fear of hemorrhage, of swooning.
The work cannot be thought itself.
The paralysis, the dead hand dry mouth seizure and exploding adrenal cortex panic in the headlight beams of human limitations.
All this time you spend planning your becoming you're not being. Get a big crowbar and move aside this dead air thing this stone before the tomb.