glitched asemic writing, 7.17 x 9.98 cm.
not quite oceanic (i am only exactly this willing to invent and simultaneously discard the self-consciously awkward neologism “beachic” to situate an author just slightly outside of the desire for a post-initial condition once upon a time labeled the “oceanic”), from across the greenway and the grey street we are given a view of the beach sloping gently down to the sea. where would the mind like to be? perhaps across the grey street, on a second floor balcony, sipping a deliciously warm American beer and gazing out over the lesser forms of tourist below. where is the mind likely to find itself? this is the question always asked of us by the asemic: where exactly are we, as individual humans reading and refusing to read, immersed at any given moment in the mediating mannerisms of our incessantly languaging selves? we are probably on the beach, looking at the ocean and thinking about the balcony. asemia is the empty street just slightly behind us.