furtunetelling and haircutting, sitting along the bogart ave strip and thinking to everyone that walks by get a job hipster hippie fucks, surviving on stimulants and white light; coffee before sex, coffee in the afternoon, a nice warm cup to bring on the eventual sleep … my body nearly vibrating with energy and sleeplessness and production and dissolution.  spending my time in three-story brownstones, inside the open windows of a car speeding along brooklyn streets, the night air leaking in … swimming and movies and not registering for classes and goodbyes and summer crews that last like novel elements, created under conditions of intense pressure and specificities, dissolving just as quickly, einsteinium, ununquadium, ununpentium, copernicum now these days.  no time to think about regrets or the past, summer exists only in an endless succession of moments of now, and there is no future stretching ahead, you can integrate infinitesimals as much as you want but it’s never really continuous, just infinite. especially not when it’s too sweaty to think.

i have a lot of stuff in my apartment.  in the proces sof living with this stuff, using it, spilling shit on it, regarding it, modifying it, and arranging it in relation with other stuff, i feel i can claim all those things as objets d’art.  in accordance, i will be selling signed things from my apartment on a generous pay scale.  get them before they’re snatched up by saatchi.  i also have useful things if you live in brooklyn and want them.

love from the front lines,

kenton

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