I want my writing to be like an old found photograph. A snapshot of god
knows what, who knows where. It is itself only. It refers to things,
quotes ennui perhaps, contains identifiable elements, but to gather
more context one must sleuth further. It simply exists. It has no
purpose other than to exist -- and by virtue of its human emanation and
deliberate existence, to entertain. If there's context, I want you to
bring it. I'm not spoonfeeding you, I want you to bring your own
context to the table, I want the little imps of your own memory to
swarm out the black doors of your pupils and infest the lines, if
that's possible. I want them to live in the lines the way engrams of my
simian reverie live in the photographs. The process by which i'm
writing may be angels lifting and dropping my fingers somewhere in the
synapses, somawhere in the juxtaposition of body and space, somatic
politics meets the ivorytower intellectual detritus, the trashpile at
the bottom of the university hill -- and your eyes a skinny little boy
with a stick, rummaging excitedly through the trashpile beneath the
sole window of the ivory tower.

Hey, man...I let the angels coopt my attention into twisted and
filigreed lines of associative doom, simian charm, ivory rebellion,
intricate rebellion, parti-colored mechanics, quantum eyewash, you name
it. So many snapshots, the shapsnots, the snaphosts, so infinite
snapshots to create, and while my fingers have life in them I'll keep
snappin.