dada

had I been born one hundred and a few years ago, I most likely wouldn’t be one of the elite who rose to the top and found meaning by praticing the ways of Dada.

but there is a small part of me here, probably related to the part that wants to experience it all – good, bad, benign -
that wants to tear my fucking book apart and burn it in a bonfire, and dance around the flame that I’d create with the only physical creation I’ve ever made that I’ve held so closely to my body for months.

A small part. but perhaps it relates to the whole point of writing a book that has an audience of one: do I really need it again? it’s been written. the feelings were generated. why the preservation? so that I can be smothered in my coffin by pages of text? so that I can idolize what post-posthumously they would say about how brilliant these silly little poems have been?

Exactly. Maybe it is time to find some matches.