A short collection of poems, annotations, free verses.If there ever was a Muse, a deity of poets and artists, she is most certainly dead or, worse, commodified. Metrics have lost direction, images proliferate and propagate like a fallout. They fill up spaces, memories, and my lungs, as if they could replicate that distant original Muse. We must abandon the necessity of closure, of completeness and determinacy. We are bound to the immaterialness and incommunicability of the moment. Dissection dislodges coherence. Escape defies purpose.
