I am gurgling. A gurgle echoes through stale breath to the front of the mouth. Its progeny is a taut, whitish atom suspended momentarily on the dry, vermillion border of the lip. Its surface tension and internal energy is inevitably compromised, unmade by evaporation and friction. The bubble flattens, pops, dissolves.

I am gurgling. I tinker with the soft, milky edges of nondisposable cancers: cast-offs, plastics, trash, voids, boring and blinking lights spelling it all out for you. Where does this stuff belong? Where does it go? Here are the wretched remnants of prosperity now compelled to masquerade forever as art: fallen crowns, ruined royal tombs, misaligned teeth, illuminated memento mori.

I am gurgling. Everything lasts forever: declining but persistent. Our own experience of the world is steady-state: “I know what I know and that’s that” and “that is the way it’s always been.” More than ever, we are incurable Sophists. We shall never live long enough nor know what is required to experience true, utter damnation and its pleasures: the relief, the real end of the tyranny of mere beliefs, the kingdom of things.

Air is a fluid. A gurgle is the sound of fluids investing: air and air; water and water; air and blood and water; air and bile and saliva. Fluids crash into one another, issue a microtonal sigh–the clarion of entropy–and disappear forever.

Art slides past my eye and my eye gurgles. My work is a shot of pain while swallowing, a drug-induced fever, gasoline on a burning esophagus, and a barely legible suicide note for a popping bubble. Nothing lasts forever.

Text: Jason Loeffler