why write anything at all?
And for me, there is no reason, no message, nor anything other than an artful decoration of the space preceding and then after each word. There is no hope for meaning. Yet there is something that these words convey and the emptiness of the page carry - a certain romance of form to rising within the template of nothingness itself, marks left to show some passage, and always a return to nothing again. Art isn't meant to last. It's always an intangible caress of impermanence against some version of itself and then left to its return. Writing, for me, is this temporary fulfillment without need for more - impermanence is ever present even in the midst words.
~
Peace,
Eric
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