i'm tired of capitalization today. still hanging onto punctuation, though. barely
the difference between here and every other place where I've lived: nothing is referential, nothing reminds me of anywhere else.
but this existential flatness is merely a surface effect (what else could it be?) - like being in a raymond carver world, where it is surpassingly tempting to scrape away at the clear lacquered surface of things, not to get at what's underneath (there is nothing underneath) but only to rough things up, create a texture.
(fifteen minutes of staring into space, and it comes to me that this is a critique of realism)
