From the cutting room floor...

WITHOUT NAMING NAMES there are some among us who would like to believe we are slaves to 'intense experiences'. Since arriving in our class we have taken to devouring tablets of chocolate- with little regard for their squared sections- they are compulsively broken at jagged diagonals, bit by irregular bit, until they are gone. Some of us would like to believe it is a compulsion that is reproduced among other habits; all night talking and arguing, hard liquor without dilution or alleviation, social confrontation after jagged social confrontation- this is what drives us on. But to be frank, some of us are lightweights, drowsy after two intense beers, depleted after a handful of theatrical gazes exchanged. And some of us have secret lives, don't come to class, don't live in the city, and we can only assume possess some other vocabulary- a vernacular some of us, in our thrill for this, our sole bent intensity, can only imagine.
To make amends for our refusal to centripetally congregate we hand around a small book. Communicate with each other, it pleads.
The book can easily be commandeered, a flag raised up its spine. Waiting for the anonymous coup, the question of the relationship between the ideal and the effective is cast in stark relief on the vessel's form.