Some days it feels like there is absolutely nothing left to say.
All the books that have been written in the past have said it all. And then other books came along and deconstructed those books, took apart form and structure, rewrote what could and could not be done.
And then we came along, into the post-postmodern world. And what is there left to say?
I look around and I think there’s nothing original I can hope to offer, no thought that hasn’t been thought, said, and argued a thousand times.
Maybe all that is left to offer are new iterations; variations on the theme. Not so much ground-breaking as traveling over old ground with different boots, hoping that something we see in the dirt will be of use to somebody else, somewhere.