dA/fORT/fORT/dA*

I again awaken to a state of penury, not a Drachma, Euro, English Pound or Stirling to be found. I fear this has become habitual, a state of statelessness, an insatiable satiability. Money and I are unkindly bedfellows, as we never see eye to eye, but are stigmatic with a stigmatism that sees no future or past, a myopic myopia. There is no ‘notwithstanding clause’ in my intellectual treatise, so a recounting is always in order, an abacus with neither a string nor bobbin, a Fort/Da that returns, but of its own accord, playing by its own rules, the eternal return ad hoc nausea. Even this short exposition has been written and rewritten until the feeling is right, which it never is, never will be. OCD disallows such frivolity, a simple rhythm and cant. You will repeat until repetition repeats itself, and then some, and then some, and then some...