Our contempt for any particular poem must be perfect, be total, because only a ruthless reading that allows us to measure the gap between the actual and the virtual will enable to to experience, if not a genuine poem—no such thing—a place for the genuine, whatever that might mean.
Sitting in a corner, I live like a toad Oh! How I love my room: my tiny abode! Here I wake up; and I sleep in hereThe world far away; yet virtually near Not that I'm jailed in this place of graceJust don't want to face another face
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The problem with making a virtual world of oneself is akin to the problem with projecting ourselves onto a cyberworld: there’s no end of virtual spaces in which to seek stimulation, but their very endlessness, the perpetual stimulation without satisfaction, becomes imprisoning.
All we need to release our inner God is a pulpit and an audience, both of which the Internet supplies in great abundance. Too bad that the corollaly to being in God mode in cyberspace is an explosion of narcissism and self-centeredness.
I consider myself a synthetic thinker in a virtual domain therefore if I’m way off there is no solid foundation or reference for authentic stupidity.
If there can be a better way for the real world to include the one of images, it will require an ecology not only of real things but of images as well.
If you have half a nothing - sell it for a double something, resell half at double-price, and buy another something and a half - how much nothing will you have two days from then? Like three. Because three is the short version of π, and π is involved in virtually anything, in some form, if you believe what the internet tells you.