An unlabelled shoebox containing a cluster of paragraphs, some legible, others not so, some caked in filth, others handled too often, are ‘the things’ presented here – although CADE more than likely sought to convey something quite different in this small collection of prosaic, almost indolent texts, ripped from a discarded notebook and preserved as items of special note. They are little more than inadequate pointers toward other ‘things’; things which in a sense are unwriteable, incommunicable, insignificant things that belong to the present alone and which are carelessly forgot, eagerly swallowed up by the insatiable gut of the vacuous past. A hand which passes of its own accord along the street; a transit van passing slightly too close to the kerb upon which you are walking; a twitching curtain; an empty packet on a dirty corner – obsessions which fill CADE’s waking hours and which are barely sensible to normal people like you or I. Whether these things really happened or not, whether they are elevated or degraded approximations of real events, whether they are reveries or pedantic records is entirely irrelevant, for we must treat these texts as ‘the things’ themselves, even if all they amount to is somebody else’s experiential garbage - mementoes of a degraded present.
Also contained in the shoebox was a photograph of a figure in a landscape – perhaps dead or only sleeping. At any rate, it is a meaningless distinction.