LOVE

I could tell you about three white cardboard boxes topped with silver spaghetti, which is not really spaghetti, but slices of a mirror and flickers of a movie. I could tell you about closed containers which are storage units, which are white cubes, which are black boxes, which are gilded cages, which are coffins, which are gifts, which are houses, which are doors, which are windows, which are bodies, which are gay, which are twitching, which are absent, which are hard drives, which deal in reverie, which are polished human skulls, which are spilling their contents, which are traces of movements, which are consequences of laws and economies, which sounds insipid, which are only visible with infrared sensors, which are heating units, which are born in Illinois, which are the remnants of empires, which are roses on a grave, which are a new variety, which were celebrated millennia ago, which are starter kits for enterprises, which will be sharply critiqued, which are socks disappearing in washing machines, which are socks hanging high up in trees, which are empty drawers, which are unimaginable, which can only be thought of, which are exact measurements beyond the scientific method, which are uncanny, which do not require for you to believe in them, which conjure romance, which are archaic manuals, which are high-visibility vests, which are checkout dividers, which invent space for possession, which are not quite things, which are rather relations, which hold a speculative charge, which invoke construction sites on paper, which are a breath of fresh air, which are stale bread dunked into milk, which makes your stomach turn, which are beds for the restless, which are building blocks of une petite pratique, which are an image, which are laconically captioned, which are like word collages, which are like poems, which feel like having a Coke with you, which are silver veins for the opiate-hungry, which desire a simple handshake, which are dogs on duty, which take on their position, which are ornaments, which are crimes, which you’ve read about in art catalogues, which are time capsules, which are a deception maneuver, which camouflage something inhuman, which is something hyper-human, which are cardboard boxes with silver ribbons on top.