"The Ceiling Tiles Are Fading Below Us", after CLos

Fam,
on the phone, walking back towards Wickenden St., CLos in the right ear, many things running through in a stream of images from the dermotologist's office. Some things sound more ridiculous in the attempt to transcribe it. I am telling you in a personality that shifts from every bird chirping in the backyard of this cafe Zog where CLos and I share a booth, our Mac eyelids front to front, not one of us blinks. Subject: the multiples interfaces of the internet is an imitation of language. The imitation finds itself as a flat surface, mimicking the intagibility of words: the interface of language appears to be happening in reverse which is also an extension of words that serve as an interface of themselves. The exterior word: Consider the face of a word, not its dimensions, not what goes on inside a chair, but what goes on on the surface of its wood. All the particles that make up the pigment, etc. the same going on with a word. I see a chair, a wooden chair with no one on it. I think superficially about gravity, how some other force pulls it vertically to stay on the ground, how that language makes sense inside of itself and the arena it caters to and produces, like one store in a mall. Another mall of language making that chair stay in place an allowing for any other kind of discourse to be projected on it, these chairs with no one sitting on them. Perhaps chairs make sense, as a function or shape, either way, its comforting to see them there, all the dialogues exchanged as a result of it: prompting another interface of sitting. I'm afraid there are no ideas but in performance; an accumulation of gesture and inflection as a circuit board. In the waiting room of the dermotologist office, Martha Stewart inside the TV set showing everyone how to make wax flowers and Christina Ricci as sidekick to the cause. Perhaps there's a few ways of coping with it A.) I could either sit there and let it depress me, B.) I could remain passive and let it make me happy, C.) I could remain neutral and watch myself react to it before the assistant-dermo opens the door to holler my name. I tried all three. Neither one worked, I walked home like a tragic-comedy skit with no subject in the heading. Empty bubbles all around. CLos on the phone ranting about how there's no use in writing if death is something so casually laughed off and ignored. I'm afraid moving to Stockholm won't insert any content into the hapless sky either. What is at stake? What is missing that turns poetry into another code word? Now that I think or don't think about it, I want Martha's fucken bouquet of wax flowers. I want to dip a dozen rosy words into a parapet and give it a bendable title, like: Metaphors are Made in Beehives. I want to stop fucking around and take you seriously or keep seriously fucking around. I want the dermotologist to hurry up and hand over the medical release over to Supercuts so they can show me a few things about romantic hustling; how to work it, work the interface of words out of the internet to make them tangible so I can basically pound my fist onto a link without having to kick storefront windows or throw myself onto the hood of an incoming car in front of Tazza, that pathetic venue so afraid of letting the ceiling crumble from below.