Pieces parts, or, where's the beef?

This has nothing to do with this post (not really), but, looken sie hier, snow!

A painter gazes at his/her/its [ed. note: too many of you conveniently leave out the denizens of hollow earth, feel shame for your ism] work, grimaces, then relentlessly daubs like a giant, radioactive paper wasp over the mistakes, stroke over knife-edge over stroke, pleased with this fortress of tint in miniature. Or scraping it away, the righteous judgment of the gods, or the Borg, channeled through one unworthy, on a thing unworthy.

With the written, once it's molted & is ready to provocatively display itself, it appears flat -- just like the feeling after reading it, badoomboom. I can don my imaginary top hat & flâneur my way through a museum & nudge (relatively) close, seeing the topographical scansion in gobs of oily or plastic goo. Par ailleurs, the text is flat ink on a flat sheet (usually) or electricity on a screen (also usually). But I see, always, the detritus of the crossed-out, the arrows to the replacement, arrows from that to the return of the murdered word, the game invisibly played out whilst typing because the visible is Finished, the Great Deceiver.

So, rereading, rehashing, delving, digging, thieving, an archaeology of expression in order to express the inexpressible, which is not so because it's the key to the pyramids or long lost esoterica; the most common sentiments are the most uncommonly difficult. All this crap isn't new to you, I'm simply tired of being unable to throw the same piece in a six-foot hole & run away, but since I've yet to find a shotgun to kill this zombie dead, on the board we stay.