My name is Mark, visceral

During my entire sleep, and consequently during my entire dream, Mark Kozelek's self-titled album was on; — it was released two years ago, the last words of the last track were written on the seat 10D of an United Airlines' plane which was taking him from New Orleans back home, my home is many places, São Francisco, and to his partner, can't wait to see you baby, can't wait to see you baby. His songs are my partners in the sentimental visceralism of walking obstinately-freely through the world of things; and this evening Mark directed the imagery in my oneiric-vigilance, like a ghost through nowhere hotels.

The soldier from the film 1917, which I haven't watched, interpreted by George MacKay, whose character I know not — in my dream he was called Mark. The film soundtrack was Mark Kozelek, Mark Kozelek, and both actor and character became self-aware of their Name, with enthusiasm and illumination, while Mark sang: Got to the front desk, the lady said: "Can I get your name?" I said, "Sure, my name is Mark." My name is Mark.

Later I was Christian Bale, also a Mark, and the apparition of a Catwoman with seaweed for hair with which she attempted to whip me, — this apparition made me violent: the Oneiric Psychopath. I whipped the woman back; she clearly wished to exterminate me; and I ended up exterminating her with three or four punches in the face. I poured her leftovers in a tank, and her blood flooded through the pipes. While I rushed to clean it, hide it, someone walked into the scene; but they were already a-one my accomplice.

I had filmed the murder as if I filmed a film of which I hadn't participated; I posted it in my stories, then deleted it for fear of being judged by my cynicism towards a scene of violence against women. But the Brazilian poet Adelaide Ivánova — whom I admire for her balance between seriousness and playfulness in approaching the subjects of her interest — violence against women being perhaps the main one — she had seen that in time; and actually cheered it with laughter, and then questioned my repentance, saying that I should say whatever I wanted to say and fear nothing.

An immemorial moment of matinal walk through very ample bushes, vast, open, airy, immense, bright, humid, cool.

In a casting for the videoclip to Nat King Cole's new song, or some other North-American king of jazz, there was a big screen showing a demo of what should be the clip; the charismatic king singing on a sidewalk, walking full of waddles, surrounded by very small black children who skipped with exaggerate joyfulness. In the audience, the potencial actors an actresses. One of the actresses stared at me with an unpleasantly critical look. I was sitting on a balcony next to the audience, which gave me a marginally privileged view of the stage where they talked about the work — and Mark still sang with me, the hardworking joy in 'The Banjo Song' or the haunting from 'Good Nostalgia'. And I'm so happy to finally come home to you To your love and your body and your warm heart I wake up every two hours and think "Where am I? What country is this? What city am I in? Is this Paris? Is this Madrid? Or London, or Dublin, or Rome? This hotel room looks so big," I think, "Where is the bathroom?" I stumble around and touching the walls, then I awaken Just a tad more realised I'm home. When I woke up, Mark's voice bringing me from inside the dream to my bed and lingering, I wrote that I would write a review guided by each track of the album. It's been a month since I wrote that I would write about the real-visceralism in Mark Kozelek, this album which is a homage to itself and to nothing at the same time; to the quotidian infrastructure of his creative life, and to unjustified amorous devotion; to the quotidian infrastructure of his creative life, the quotidian infrastructure of his creative life, And when you leave for work in the morning I get separation anxiety When you're beside me, you always calm me You hear me out on all my worries You help me make sense of everything My God, last night on December 4th You cooked me a turkey with mashed potatoes and stuffing I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.