I go for that, I told them in an essay: the notebook, fragment, random jotting. Not without purpose, not just anything, but the result of desire & impetus. Out here on the balcony with the dahlias having weathered wind, thunder, lightning, (they didn’t flinch), drinking rain in all night overnight, both pots growing from toddlers to adolescents in half a day. Keeping me company in lieu of any mail today. As they weathered the storm I thought about the thesis, the aesthetics of the fragment. It has a lot to do with our innate refusal to see any object in some way other than inherently whole, at the same time cultivating a fondness for that which is missing, that which is consubstantial to the ruin.