Page 7 - Demo

Many artists insist upon never having to explain their work. I, however, believe in 100% transparency.
If something doesn’t make sense to you, if you need clarification, or if you wish to understand my motives for writing what I’ve written, feel free to ask a question; I will answer with as much care and honesty as I can muster and will try not to tergiversate.
We are all the same, but some of us have impaired hippocampi.
An anacoluthon is a sentence which is ordered in such a way grammatically, that it makes no logical sense. This is slightly different from a paraprosdokian.
And so it ends: another mad chase after the numinous and vernal and quotidian, another tour through dogwood haunts, grocery aisles, and ten-cent theaters, dogging after shadows. How do you chase what lingers—cucumber and melon, juniper and vanilla—it is there and not there. It meant something to me once, but now I can’t remember what that was.
A huarache is a kind of Mexican sandal. You’ll know it if you see it.
Julio Cortazar’s prose is inscrutable, hardly even prose: “The scorpion stabbing itself in the neck, tired
of being a scorpion but having to have recourse to its own scorpionness in order to do away with itself as a scorpion... there is some sort of indescribable mistake at the very beginning of things, out of which comes this phenomenon which is addressing itself to you at this moment.”
Is there any distinction to be made between a captain and a coxswain?