Whatever yearning that still exists for "works" or "pieces" of writing is probably the result of a reactionary desire for a coherent place for art within a sadistically conformist and conforming society. Don't expect it from me. All you'll get from me are the disparate fragments that result from the totalitarian, manipulative and exploitative culture I live in. Excuse me, but I've been reading Adorno again and he's right.This is an administered culture and like you- I am fucked.
The hope for continuity and wholeness, which all of my nature longs for, is dead and gone.
I pick up, here and there, parts of bodies which still remain- after the explosion. Some are soft, some hard, some beautiful, some bleeding. But I am not in the Frankenstein business- someone else can sew this all together, if they must- for convenient shelving and packaging.