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“Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most–you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love. This, my dear, is love.” — F. Kafka
Montaigne, after losing his dear friend Étienne de la Boétie, began writing essays to satiate his need to communicate; so does “the reader” have the privilege of “[taking] the place of the dead friend.”
You cast your body into the world, a poem for us to tear apart. Act unchoreographed, act within civil boundaries and psychological biases, act to pave the way; you are the compass. You are thinking, you are poetic, you are being.
Photograph these bodies and make it art, photograph these bodies and make them worthwhile, photograph these bodies and make them our own—our Orpheus of memory.
“No more psychology!”
You’re a carver, a butcher with a smile, cut me farther than I’ve ever been.” So worship these creations, commemorating our existence.
There is no truth but what you say, no truth but what you think.
“Communication is health, communication is happiness,” so make it pleasant to hear.
“Build mazes to give our wandering purpose,” so make our time worthwhile.
Play a game.
Sit around a table and convey information, convey thoughts, convey a spoonful of sentiment.
Cut into a density of words, let the pith weep out.
Apply, Remember, Analyze, Create.
“That is all” and that is enough.
We have made Air.
Thank you so much;