I’m no writer, so I’ll answer in fragments. I see, in no particular order, a luxurious twenty-first century malaise, an artist fucking with process and inviting us in (and akin to our aforementioned Howard no less!), a hotel on the outskirts of some soon-to-be forgotten metropolis, a man resting and wandering after breakfast, after lunch, after dinner, after drinks. A man who forgot to feel lonely until it was too late to return. A bout of indecision, the pang of regret, the longing for a woman whom he hasn’t yet met. I see the contrivance of rhyme and the manipulation of punctuation. Alliteration? No. Process over substance and the absence of substance as answer to its own riddle. The relentless cycle of bravado and self-loathing, of output and discontent. The way we lived and, even more so, the way we live now.
Do you see a way out? Can you find some sweet relief? Do you see how we’ll survive when this new day passes? If I close my eyes and listen, I can hear him breathing. Listen.
I see a moment in the mind of a man, a mind where no quiet thing stirs. “That’s what I see,” says she.
