Pleasure derives from that tension that comes in the scraping of surfaces against one another. The violent confrontation of surfaces tears small bits from each and deposits them in the minor pits and cracks of the other—even as these flaws are what produces the friction. They annihilate each other in the rough of their stroke.


Because all efforts miss their mark, fall short, fail—and still there must be something to do, which is to say, there is nothing better to do than this, than to try, than to try anyway. Not in spite of, but because of. I know I will never get it, do it, make it, finish it, be it. And fortuitously, not being it, is exactly the place of productivity. Filling the empty placeholder of the "it" provisionally with something—with anything, and then clearing it out, on finding it lacking, a bad fit, wrong, and preserving the motile vacuum of the empty square.

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