Old tapes, long life, new neuroses

Spontaneous categories!

New ways of putting this next to that!

Record, re-group, re-record, re-regroup, really just so much fun. Who could complain.

Cassette obsolescence, painful sonority.

The surprises arise, congratulate him, give each year meaning, for meaning is record is vice versa is nothing else

Is a short stroll to Hell.

"These are about me, and these feature me, and that was inspired by me, and these document me through the eyes of my loved ones, whoever and wherever they may be."

They just keep appearing.

And these are the ones he must keep hidden for years and years. The hidden collection.

And this is the collection of things a person throws away.

This is the dusty collection, and this the collection of things that never worked out.

And where the collection of small triumphs laced with melancholic disappointments?

And where the collection of recipes written in made-up tongues?

Ah, here is the collection of genius dulled by time, and

Here the collection of that which suggests the secret emotions of others.

There is the collection of works by authors who failed to realize their potential (as well as works by women whose beauty has faded hilariously, a smaller but no less important collection).

This is the collection of texts that used to seem more descriptive.

And here is the collection of things he wouldn't normally do but was coaxed into enjoying by a small but respectable audience.

Put this with the empty collection, that with the illegible collection,

and this in the box of successes.

Categories become collections, collections splinter and evaporate.