David Ronce

I have never been involved in the art of cultural event-making. My logic is inscribed into modern art?s coarse face of the public?s dependency. This, I think, requires knowledge of a hollow principle with circumspection. But regulations prevent going down six hundred feet into the eye of the sea without lead, pitch, or tar.

The question is: am I really witnessing the transformation of a bronze sculptured girl into self-sublation and dissolution? Will this be a newly transformed life for her? Its almost an eschatological revelation toward her reality, and my arms tighten as she struggles for a conversational gambit.

We are different creatures at night. There are some times of day for each person to form a sort of pavilion. Also, the core temperature and gene expression of each of us can haunt the coasts at night. Moreover, our personalities are rhythmic, and our singing range may have limits. It makes for a major strategic advancement.

On a sunny January afternoon, I met with my ex-wife, a real piece of work. To be precise, she?s a refurbished fungal-systematist. That means she knows how various species of giant mushrooms relate to each other. Originally from Pennsylvania, she specializes in poisonous cross-pollination between fungi and recently fell down an inclined plane.

I had been arranging books on shelves. It was nearly midnight when I finally finished. Then we climbed into the car, and on an impulse, drove to the nearest convenience store. There was a hint of curdled milk in the air. My energy had decreased to zero as we amplified the hollowness of our lives.