Last night I dreamt I am wandering a toilet facility: it is multi-story and many-roomed, with multiple toilets in tiny cramped spaces, a veritable warren, festering and dirty, as men walk in and out and people eat and study and write among the shitters. Looking for a clean single cubicle, I run into a former friend from my time in Galway's art scene, a performance artist who used to annoy me with her pointed discussions about my ex. She doesn't recognise me, and I open my mouth to tell her who I am but my mouth is jammed with pills, potsherds, and broken teeth.
I fill this diary—but to what end?
"O, O, O, O."—Hamlet's last utterance
"the rest is silence"—Brian Dillon, Suppose A Sentence
"Anne Boyer suggests the girl had invented and exhausted a language unique to her experience: 'every O could have been, also, every letter and every word for the little girl: each O also an opening, a planet, a ring, a word, a query, a grammar.' These are the points at which sentences fail."—Ben Eastman's review of Brian Dillon's Suppose A Sentence, Art Review October 2020