perhaps however, this choice has no words. These choices should not be quantified and classified. Designated. But rather remain open though not ambiguous. It should be a new form. With both structure and space without definition from the past. built from the choices of men of the past but relit with the flame of my being. My being has no definition but it has an end and it has structure. It has beginning that i know or have been taught to know. But I know not where it ends. it is an odyssey and as much as I will it it may be an epic. Something worth keeping. Something large. Something worth talking about. Something the resounds in the halls of the living dead. Something about the expanse and the weakness of men. Something about the strength of man. The immovable force of our will and the unstoppable force of nature. I will not eschew the plebeian nor the small moments. But a life based on small moments of pain and feeble jokes and cuteness/(godhowihatethat) how I resent minor infatuations.

I must paint the epic tragedy of being. without sentimentality.

I suppose that is why i resent so much this story of mary caponegro. It is so unbearably sentimental in its nostalgic recantation of love. God damn it can one not see that love exists like being only in the present. That to dwell on love is to be petty with a force greater that gravity. To underestimate a force that is constantly around oneself. To treat love as if it belongs to oneself and is not a force both within and without oneself is the fall into the pit of sentimentality. She attempts to make grandiose the feebleness of a mere woman. Somehow all of her rhapsodizing does not inspire empathy.