Bike porn

Shit is also art.

It speaks about the separation between the visceral and the more exalted ambitions of the intangible - and always out of reach - 'self' that we crave to "know" but at the same time we fear, because to know one's self is to stare into a bottomless void that offers nothing but the frozen promise of one's mortality. It is in this emotional hinterland - this "second Christmas" - this "golf course without holes" where we dance to the pipes of our own robot jester as he plays merrily on the very small stage, with tears in his electronic eyes and the smell of grease paint all too present in his electronic nostrils - all the time knowing he is nothing but metaphor for a futile attempt to grasp as the incorporeal nothingness that hopes to explain that which it is not.

.

A right load of wind & piss then!?