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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Altamont Ravenard" data-source="post: 1176486" data-attributes="member: 14700"><p>It is friday, and thus my brain, usually disposed to such litterary (or rather, linguistic? I am not sure, neither do I wish to check) endeavours, is having some trouble producing a text of worth, or at least a text with a spark of intelligence, that spans more than the usual length of a regular sentence, which tend to stop after a couple of lines, unless the author, carried by a wave of inspiration, and without regard for the poor receivers of his message (ie, the readers), decides that a few lines makes for a deceiving accomplishment, and carries on and on and on, the rhythm of his sprawling grammatical mess marked by the liberal use of commas, totally oblivious to the fact that the only thing he can write about is the fact that he is writing about the fact that he is writing, which is what usually happens, if one were to consult various theorethical, when a would-be author, novellist, or poet, cuts himself from the real world and refuses to seek inspiration from it, but that is neither here nor there, and as the inspirational juices start to run dry, subjects diverge to anything available to the author's visual field, a picture of John Clesse, a book by Georges Perec, a guitar that rarely gets a chance to be played, while in his brain the realization that plugging long enumerations in one's attempt to create a fastidiously long monoparagraphical (neologisms! How I love thee!) sentence is an easy way of succeeding at a hard task, if said task consists in creating something that makes sense throughout, goal that was probably not achieved but no one will care, since the labyrinth, the arduous path will not be followed by a single set of eyes, and thus none will comprehend the absolute finality of the period.</p></blockquote><p></p>

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