On every level the only response to the unholy stew of gibberish swirling around us right now refusal. Paste, glue, paper, ink, sweat.
Turn On The News.
Courier is the field of tension, the field of words that surround, that we emit, The Mind squeaking, ruminant, cud-like. Futura’s authority bent, folded, mutilated. Haunted by Paul Renner, anxiety of influenced Barbara Kruger, not Freddy Kruger chases. Splatter, scratch, draw the line and all seems wet again, mutable.
I said I see no joy
I see only sorrow
I see no chance of your bright new tomorrow
Despite it all the words of that song percolate joyfully.