It no longer simply gives shelter — it no longer ‘simply’ gives anything — but offers itself as a mirror or a labyrinth, as a beautiful obstacle, as an object like a stone inside your heart | With reproducing “and”s and “also”s and “but yet”s, its maze-like structure, reminiscent of the rippled, convoluted surface of a human brain, invites us further and further into a complexity of folds and planes and voids, and artifacts that are neither planes nor voids nor folds | It has left behind the literal world of the desert, the bare place of sand and water, the functions of shade and sleep, and commences to expound itself in luxuriant metaphors, hollows inside the eyes that refuse satiation and floating assignations, which, prone to the next day, and a changed prospectus, create the mirage of an infinite ambiguity, a terminal inability to focus, an inherent shake, wobble and blur | No longer content with mere utility, it begins to delight in decorative swashes and ornamental gestures, and develops an extensive network of styles and manners, which in themselves begin to resemble mazes, requiring study and classification, mapping, debate | However, it is no longer flourishing: although it continues to grow, it starts to exhibit signs of a certain staleness and fatigue | Decay has arrived, not merely as the inevitable expression of a natural order but as an event artificially willed, consciously constructed | For a while, this decadence is not a problem, but then parts of the maze, weakened by disinterest or over-specialisation, troubled by irony, debased by a facile intention, begin to fragment off, to become sub-mazes, secrets, gardens, fetishes…

They attend the play, and they comment on the production | The set design, the standard of the acting, the director’s interpretation | When the last performance is over, and the theatre is empty, the rows of seats gather a kind of hush to them, and the building forms an egg of potential | This happened a long time ago, and the play has since fallen out of fashion / Does it haunt a single neuron? | Does some faint trace of a single over-wrought soliloquy / scrape against the moon and cause that planet to stir and shift its light by some infinitesimal amount? || To the human mind, all things are toys, and the world of the past is like a giant toybox | filled with inert and staring dolls, their eyes | awaiting the glow of recognition and return, the caress | of a flawed and passing god | the privilege | of seeming useful


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)