there is the realm of curves, the realm of heights and depths, the realm of profusion and the realm of desolation. but this is the realm of straight lines now. the unshaded plain, while an ochreous patina of dust spreads over everything. yes ochereous, because everything turns colour in the heat. it's a tyranny of unbending lines but not monotonous at all, probably just a sublime commonplace, a directness in lights, shapes and colours which lingers naggingly in the mind's eye.so blinding no matter what. and i cant make my way out.
mediocrity. it only exacerbates the alien. the fate that placed me here; do i rage against it? if im rational, it's born less of benevolence than of despair, because my idealism works against me. a rancid self-pity that threatens to spill but fallacies cannot be condoned.
an infinite world. limitless regularity. quizás quizás...