Welcome to the Desert of the Real.
Art does not die because there is no more art. It dies because there is too much.
You have to know how to disappear.
Boredom is like a pitiless zooming in on the epidermis of time. Every instant is dilated and magnified like the pores of the face.
If you say, I love you, then you have already fallen in love with language, which is already a form of break up and infidelity.
At the heart of pornography is sexuality haunted by its own disappearance.