Recycled Beckettianism. Rehashed Bernhardism. Ellipses-period Céline, as if he hadn’t been disgraced.
Endless fragment sentences. Infinite italics. Exclamation marks! Ceaseless hysteria.
Working up our head of steam. Getting our propellors turning. Shuddering up the runway. Taking unsteadily to the air.
No one’s interested. There’s no audience for this. We’re amusing no one.
Swarming, without meaning. Some … proliferation. A damp patch. An infestation. A cloud of flies. Some midges, midging. For no particular purpose. With no meaningful result.
Something to get rid of, that’s all. Some rat’s nest. Frantic, but disgusting life. To be poisoned away. To be sprayed away. If anyone could be bothered! If there really was nothing better to do!
With no general interest. No significance. No meaning. No merit. Evidence of no thriving local scene. Of some vibrant subculture. There’s nothing here for future intellectual historians. This is not some maverick new phase in the history of ideas.
And what does it matter? There’s no pattern in this. No general lesson. Nothing to be learnt.
It should simply be covered up. Discreetly. Without calling attention to itself.
There’s nothing to see here. Nothing to pause over. Nothing to consider. Nothing to be thought.
The world needn’t pause. Nothing has to happen. No action needs to be taken – not really. We’re bothering no one – fundamentally.
Work in Progress 