Preface to Perpetual Failings

The material housed in this notebook is largely rubbish. Alas, that is the condition of the mediocre mind - churning out scraps of stupidity interspersed with plagiarized bits of genius authored by far more brilliant artists. Seductive images dominate the trifling intellect. It cannot be disjoined or detached from the image, facile and transparent. So, it's full of rubbish, nothing but rubbish; at times, cutesy rubbish, but mostly jaded and bitter rubbish, frustrated with a world patronizing at every turn. These failing hands scribbles incoherence onto paper, resembling haphazardly smeared primate feces, and some poor deluded soul shall mistaken it for art. Even though nothing profound can be discovered in vain pathetic meanderings, someone somewhere shall misunderstand, misinterpret, and mistaken rubbish for lost treasure. Meander, meander, wander young one - you never will amount to much, but do continue to pursue the green cheese hovering overhead. A cardboard imagination creaks on, seeking the next dimension. A failed artist - a weak artist, master producer of kitsch - creates hideousness to affirm the spirit of art. The failed artist, demonstrative of the highest nobility of man - fully aware of his own weaknesses yet ignores them, and strives for greatness nonetheless - is an absurd hero. So, friends, raise a glass to this stagnant mind and these failing hands in tribute to all that you are and all that you could be.