Life itself is a big ruin. It's lacking in aesthetics, thin with meaning, weak with consciousness, dull and unremarkable. If Dadaists was exploding culture, then I am attempting to find signs of life in the rubble and ruins left by the cultural explosion; attempting to open my eyes widely, amidst the weakness, to see the world; to glean a sliver of nutrient from the ruin; to search for a piece of dazzling wreckage in the dullness. The plastic bag only presents its utility and meaning when it's stuffed with objects and carried in the hand. Immediately after, it becomes a detested debris, but it stays eternally, unable to to dispelled, as if containing an unwavering life force. That commands my respect!
