It told him to get on with some work. This idea of damage is hanging around, thoughts of paper scarified. He scored the paper surface with a blade against a straightedge, Too clean a cut . Twist the knife. That did it. Working his way across the paper, perversely, the scratches look good. Nice? It wanted something more defiant. Black paint – cliché? He is attracted to niceness, ‘It’ pours scorn, prompts him to cause more damage; what happens to the paper remains arty. Having lost his sense of direction neither he nor the work is going anywhere. ‘It’ runs out of energy . Stuck, in a corner, it looks around. The workshop, like his brain, is cluttered with stuff , unorganised, hardly room to turn around. Brain and body bump into things that fall to the floor. Both need space for u-turns. Brain is a function of the world outside. Cod stuff? That’s all he’s got. When the stuff is put away, (always more stuff than places for it) dust remains. Hoover, Infinite regress.
