The work before you. Compressed, dense, active, compacted. Message in a bottle. Watkins Tottle to Aristotle. Plato, Socrates, Derrida, Freud. Not the right order. Words in a void. The final destination foiled. Secrets spoiled, aged, erased. Clandestine loops of allusion. Sentences stacked, edgy, overloaded. Decipherment a deep deceit. There is no choice. Revelation is destabilised, restrained. Chris, Harry, Alfred Jarry. Don't forget those boys.

‘Text paintings' possibly, perhaps? A conceited little genre. Stencils and coloured pencils. The lexicon without tears. No compass or presence. Lost in the post. Thick at the most. Hard on the cards. Fiches, files, patterns, lines. Mesh of memories, removed. Alphabet soup turned sour. A tract retracted, torn. These words are pictures. Cryptograms from crashed computers. Nothing less than process. Nothing more than protest.

Extract from 'Recurrent Loop' by Peter Suchin

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