Abrupt dishevelment and its reversal, dramatic ends achieved by technologies of time dispersal and congealment, in short, our conception, in itself banal, reveals multitudes, in relation to what it is not. The only thing shameful about the indigence of art, at the present time, is how it conceals itself, sometimes in the tiny folds around your eyes. The scent of mint, adrift on the wind, your name whispered by a ghost born of sleepless nights, a host of other things with no names- so you do what you can do and what happens will. The canals of your ear, invisible underground chambers, packed to the gills with secret machinery, sometimes quiet and slow, but always producing. Thanks for that.