I feel like I've done absolutely nothing recently. I've written absolutely nothing. I've focused on nothing. I let nothing really become a focus. Work builds up, but I ignore it, or half ignore it. And I feel this melancholy apprehension that I'll never really live in the realm of the singular again—that I'll always be plural, split up, sliced into pieces… constantly reorganizing myself for the next project that comes along, even while the old projects, whether artistic or personal or material, remain unfinished. I feel like a military unit that can't reform its lines, that keeps getting attacked from different sides. From a theoretical perspective, my network is too open to the world. There are too few borders between me and whoever wants to reach me. And there are
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