The Avant-garde Is Now Stranded In The

I Feel Disappointed, But I Don't Remember Just What I Expected.

My Nostalgia Is For The Impossible.

If We Think About The Obvious Long Enough, It Dissolves.

The Dignified Catastrophes Of Tragedy Bear Little Resemblance To The Slow Ruin Inflicted By Life.

The Flesh Of Past Lovers Looks Both Familiar And Strange.