You look around his apartment, and there are things of interest to be seen; photographs of office-rooms mocked up from artful paper, mocked up to make walls that might withstand a knuckle’s knocks, so it appears, or even withstand this blasted coughing. Here you cough. But then, unavoidably, the paper staplers and paper printers and paper papers (pass that) would be blown away—
Over here, a photo of fifteen naked dancers, hats off in a row. Photography!—ah—ink a transcript, a strip of bits, point, point, point, point. Colors and colors—(a cough again)—this coughing fit will strip them all. Something horrible on TV, a man without nerves (or nearly), skin all a shudder as pulled with wires. What else—elections. Films, films. (You lay across a narrow couch.) Bored. Materials flowing from the drawers—what is it all? More, rejected prints, marker on them: not to be read. Writes like his hand’s in a box.
A photograph’s here—a single dancer, blacked-out eyes—a raccoon—open kiss to the camera. Tiny dancer—there! Steps marching up the stairs.
-2001
