This is the agitation observed at the point of happening. Perhaps an unknowable nervousness, muscles shaking, difficulty breathing, blurry vision, even sweat glands making themselves known. You feel tension between moments broken up into even more minute moments, each a beginning and each an end in itself. We are left naked in our own production, subject to sensual whims of the blissfully blasphemous sublime. Longinus’ stenographer can’t stamp out the rules any longer. How do we attain sensorial overload? Where do we find such drastic heights or such terrifying depths? Lights go out, shadows fall, the players emerge, this is the avant-garde. Unobjectionable inexpressibility is best formulated by overwhelming all of the senses. Where time envelops space, shadowing it, scrambling it and then gluing it back together in a different scene, in quiet, anxiety-ridden hovels of pleasure lifted from pain. Between the wheels of a subway train and its tracks or off the crags of stones or even the space between your dog’s toes, between a curtain and its stage, or the air vibrating between two bodies, we may hope to find a world apart.
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