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PURCHASE THE DIGITAL COLLECTION (2013)
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HOME 2004-01-28
Johannes Brahms B. 5.7.1833 Hamburg / D. 4.3.1897 Vienna Chill Good grief Maybe it’s true what they say about the dopamine receptors. I go to feel fine my head hurts and for absolutely no reason, I can’t. There’s me—or here, this is me a dry throbbing and in the apartment with me is the Second Symphony of Brahms. At first I thought it was the horns from sinus to earlobe, the long way round but it’s the strings that have awoken me to my plight. Here’s me, a string my optic nerves stretched like a jet plane’s trail and there, the next string over, is Brahms—or any pleasure, really—and in between is air. A quarter inch my jaws like trees that crucify my paratrooper teeth a half-inch interval in space is all that separates us but it’s endless, endless everything. So here’s my pen—that is, the bow cooking odors cooking odors—respiration itself brings remorse to the stay-at-home diner trailing cat hair; here is back and forth, here are delicate wrist motions and obscure adjustments. The space between me and my pleasure fills. . .but there’s no passage. Consolation Site: Let us at least try
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