From the print comes screaming. Rip. Rip again. Once more, a ripping.
Eugenics in art. All those works in progress, good ideas poorly executed, trite ideas beautifully made. Someone else did it better. I’ve done it better. Intriguing failures, halfway to something. All the way to nowhere.
Too good to throw out, not good enough to survive.Besnotted whelps, misfortunate slunks, step right this way. Your time is now never.
I’ve been wandering into the print storage room and committing mayhem.
Early albumen. Rip. Meh sort of platinum. Rip. Dinged. Rip. Boring. Rip. I’ve done better. Rip. What was I thinking? Rip. Puerile. Rip. Jake the Ripper comes a screaming.
An odd mix of tristé and despair. From wading into mediocrity springs morose petulance; why am I not better? And the joy, and freedom of acceptance. So much just won’t ever be better than now, this is as good as they get. They need to get gone.
Oh, if they were only wine, aging in the dark, patiently towards sublime. But no.
Vinegar then, vinegar now. Rip.