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I am sending press kits and throwing plates of metal into vats of acid and drawing maps and stumbling through dreamweaver and making books in the basement of a can factory and writing about small things and trying to make the impossibly complicated world somehow visible, chartable, diagramable, and I'm slinging coffee and putting up shows and making posters with fancy frames and slinging more coffee and running between greenpoint and the west village constantly. I'm reading lonely books about lonely people who like architecture more than humans, and I'm still averaging six to eight cups of coffee a day and I'm visiting galleries to prove it's not the end of art and I'm emailing emailing constantly and I'm spending hours and hours pulling pages off an old italian printing press and I'm spending whole nights in the cold marble tower of the nyu library trying to do good work when fast work seems to be about the only thing possible. Then I give up and tunnel deep underneath the East River at an impossible, rocket-like speed and walk across the park under absolutely silent baseball floodlights and I'm home, where boys play air drums and talk about their feelings and drink beer out of large cans and dance with me and sit on the sideroof talking talking talking. I've never been so completely and totally exhausted in my entire life.

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November 2009

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