Grief lies here like an insomniac pining for sleep. Like scissors running dull to the touch of fate. We paper over grief its ruins and brittle slates with hordes of torn pages. Forget me nots band aids christ sporting a porn stache. In this romance worn down to plots of kitsch. With words amassing to memorialize to clarify the haul of plague doctors wandering roadsides barking Bring out yer dead Bring our yer dead. Ten pages twenty thirty. Nothing novel here. The words both deed and barrow to the bones. We give graves to our young. Our candles rage mirages that merge with fall winds. Beneath the shadow of all things moving we incubate. We are sworn to the word to worlds unseen because the rules of the game assure us that paper covers rock. Grief an insomniac attending its own coma nightly. From near distances we keep close watch.
Installation by Yoko Ono