Behold an almost votive commotion at the table of dissolute muses. Their intimacy is brittle mimicry, prismatic glances in hand mirrors and ludic tattoos. A somewhat machinic bit of obsessive-compulsive theatre (damsels de-stressed, in celebratory mode) amid the usual lavish inactivity. I beside myself with the pallid multitudes and their Martian ambition. The sinthome of this is parthenogenesis. An indexical disposition (or inchoate state of attenuation) juxtaposed with the errant paraphernalia of a spectacular indulgence. I beside myself again and again with diminishing resolution. She who must be accommodated arrives late to the occasion. Her reciprocity is legendary. As for a continuous present, the key would seem to be the logical depth of its virtuality.