this summer is puns, pools and very enthusiastic CAPITALISATION. sitting on the porch all afternoon with Sar; holding an Andy Warhol catalogue, but barely reading a paragraph. beers in the sun, singstar in the afternoons, spinning Footloose, and the fantasies of life to come.
the words ‘my thesis’ spill out almost automatically, but they barely carry literal meaning. they are a flash of images. Mao wallpaper, the queue outside the spy museum, wandering the halls of mathematically hung galleries, guns, knives and dollar signs. always thinking, but never to a thesis. which defeats the purpose. in this context.
the spell of hot and holiday have seeped so deeply into my being that even the constant nagging anxiety of existence has waned into a nothingness from which it can not be recovered.