Friends of Gabriel Chantayan

sat on the bank of the spree at dusk like an idiot who still believes in the romance of failure, damp sketchbook open on my knee, and the only honest mark i made all session was a single line i drew from top margin to bottom margin and then i shut the thing. not even a gesture. a surrender. walked home feeling like a bad photograph of someone who used to have potential. the gulls watched. they knew.

what is the point of carrying a sketchbook through this city when the only thing worth drawing is the absence of everything worth drawing? kracauer said the surface is the interior. i drew the surface and got nothing. Müll.

eurotrash you drew the absence and the absence drew you back