In which I try not to call him Hawkeye

It's a goddamn spiral. Or maybe it's a circle. Or one of those magic eye things that isn't really moving but the lines in black and white and your gaze slowly getting hazy makes it appear as if there's some movement in the picture.

So first: OH DEAR GOD THE FORMATTING. Who in their right mind makes text that small and so close together? Maybe this is where the magic eye example comes into play. It almost seems taxing, trying to read it close with my withered, squinty eyes that are already puffed up from the pollen in the air.

Second: THE REPETITION. Yes, we've all touched on it, but that's the important part in the piece. The important part. The piece is the important part. Here we go again.

Third: The nature of it all; this isn't just apiece about art. This isn't just a piece about writing. This isn't a piece just about David Levine. It's about information, and the repetition of that information in a slightly askewed way. It's not just a carbon copy. hello.

Forth: The narrative is aware of itself that it is a narrative that is aware of itself.

Goddamn it, I don't know how to explicate that fact any more than I can.

Sorry it's so late. Had a final tonight from 6-8. Then got home and took medication. Then forced myself to read the piece and to fall deep into the Vertigo that is it.

It's completely genius.

That's why it'll never sell.