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even. a text on “even”, an artwork on “even”. what to write, what to make? It is 4:10.

It is

december 23rd. she sits on the green couch, balances her laptop, while being smushed into the

couch. Ah, the couchpillows are definitely non-even. she ponders, what to write about, how to

fashion a fascinating, utterly gripping narrative involving even, even, maybe. one could show

even through absence of even.

writer’s block, writer’s block, so very palpable. She could fill the pages with the word even, even

again and again, even lower-case, even uppercase, even with commas, staccatoed by

apostrophes, even even even. what does it even mean? She ponders, prefers the even that means

the physical even, no mountains, that kind of even. even without obstructions, a line, a ground, a

place waiting to be built on. Plain even, prairieish even. even even even. sounds good in threes,

even better in fours. Ha.

Literature it ain’t, not yet that is. Poetry? Rambling, ah, not even that. she watches a cheesy show

on tv, not very even inducing. What does that mean? Even now, dunno, dunno. She types,

sprinkles the word “even” in there ad nauseum, so very randomly. Very evenly. Even even even.

last time the theme was “in the corner”, this time it is “even”. last time the muse was so much

nicer, this time no inspiration whatsoever. Maybe repeating even might help. E V E N. she could

change the font, the point size. Better not, the software is pretty temperamental, does its own

thing, acts up. better let it be times new roman, let it be point 12, let it be double-spaced. On

even, on even. how will she name this even piece? Even, ah, even. she ponders, if this is artistic

writing or just rambling? Who draws the line, the even one. This is so very insane, even, even,

even, insanity. Even insanity. She ponders if she can say something intelligent, slightly witty.

With innuendoes, sans innuendoes, if she should spellcheck or just gallop thru the language. who

writes a piece on “even”, poetry ‘bout “even”, a novel ‘bout “even”, an op-ed piece for the Sun,

on “even”. hopefully no one will read this, hopefully it will just exist in a corner in the “even”

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exhibit. “in the corner”, “on even”. in 221a, somewhere in chinatown. On January 22nd. she

ponders if she should change the capitalization of January, smush it into january, make it more

even and thus much more artistic. This is what artschool teaches you, to do mindless

experimentations, in order not to get too bored with the utterly repetitive curriculum. That is

what artschool is, the same course again and again, all through 4 years. Very, so very even. no

escapades, no hicc-ups, a sooooo very even education. Ok, we threw some institutional critique

in, just for fun, just for even fun. This is fun, becoming more and more fun, constructing

mindless sentences with tons of “even”s therein. Ah, even, yuh.

There is nothing more to say. The story of even ebbed out, evened out.

Tomorrow, she will sit here again, write some more, heap up some more even words onto the

even page. Even even even.

Outside dusk, the day nodding to evening, this place is so very desolate.

She ponders, why she writes, there are better ways to describe a concept as abstract, as concrete

as “even”. poetry would be fine, a drawing could be fine, a sculpture, an installation. A

performance, a performance. A performance? She fills the page, with words, with words.

Undiscriminating, nothing but utter bullshit.

E v E n. even- even- even.

even even even even even. and some more of even.

even. even? even.