With your essay dancing on my mind.
Different flirtatious possibilities -
the flirtatious communication of, not a coyote but an alien to the human race, who by dint of imagination sustains a near appearance of humanity - grateful for those with multifaceted mirrors in their eyes.

The map-image, keep close for troubled moments, is:-

towers clear-cut, sky reflected. Dust on closer inspection. Inside search, enter a room. Look up see something, see a glass ceiling, see through discern another and perhaps beyond that. Leave by lift shaft.

Outside - wind blows, without trees nothing holds - move going towards body, a desert extended. Passing a distance, still within sight of the usurpers of height measured now in the cupping of a hand, mark on the ground body that under-stood from beneath the glass.

No trees, wind freely blows, intervenes items of interpretation onto the drawing. becoming part of and leaving. In the intermittent voices on the wind hear directions Explanation extends beyond the drawing, is pulled mark, waiting mouth, a forgetting.
Stretch, crumple image in unneat - folded, a map to guide and I fetishistically inhabit your essay in the way I am possessed by it.

What conditions does the seed of that (hardy?) 'perennial revolt of art against itself' need? How did wallflowers know walls would be invented? How is an opinion (or is it an essential philosophy) a basis for factttttttt?

(The economics of 'attention' as measured by the ECU, dowager index (creatively heard) or index of its own? Do we all pay in attention? Am I paid? I haven't noticed)

I try not to but
Oh no,
not a gallery white walls
repeat video never letting go,
in an art gallery or hell.
Sucked under white walls to not consuming fires but bland flooring, dragged across to, under yet another wall unsubstantiated white.
Carpet stretch and wall, all indefinite infinity,
a mirror sensation with the freaked out hopelessness on entering a new shopping centre, my first.
Now lessened, that first truth lost, I'm the accepting damned, only occasional foreboding.

The atmosphere has changed, is it me, have I fell headlong, heartlong, into 'it isn't like it used to be'?

The meat market, it's innards gutted to become, the Tontines. With a drill through the skull fountain. Complete, replete with un-darting fish, spouting ceaseless white noise. No longer translucent scales, gob-stop eyes life full, life left, lying on tiled slabs and hanging flesh not plastic deceptive but carrying cow, sheep, pig terribly undisguised. Blood running, waters slosh to the drains on the stone, as cleaning starts late Saturday afternoon, ending the week. No echoes of shouts, temptations, flirtations, jokes jostling amongst stall holders and those on the spy for a bargain that late in the day, the Tontines is a mausoleum

Outside Centre