For the happy man! - Collected writings DEPRESSION: Ed Atkins

forms to depress. A critique of depressions also, if I fucking say
so. To speak of depressions from within depressions – from the
wet floor of depressions, looking up at a blurred chink of grey
light. An echo in here that serves to plot the internal walls of the
depression. A sorry parody comes drifting back.
(I don’t sound like that, do I?)
– Conveyed from this narrow black bed at the bottom
of depressions. This narrow, black, piss-wet bed – the ceiling
above which artexed into complicated symbols that denote the
more familiar constellations rendered absurd – properly alien
by this dislocation beneath the skin of a moon a few light years
away. A dislocation half a mile or so below a sea-level of tranquillity.
The schism between a sea on earth – quaint, perversely
– and the lunar reality of countless voided craters we understand
as a fossilised sea, geologic strata a daguerrotype of the
tide.
A sea churning with tentacles and incontinent spurts
of fetid black ink.
The canyon floor. Or skulking in depressions, entrenched.
– A perspective afforded of a cross section of the topsoil:
roots, worms, nests, bones, dense clay, inorganic, multicoloured
MISC. Where a kind rancid milk flows. Or a kind of
tar or CRUDE, exhumed from the crevasse. This, then, delivered
with a chasmically depressed expression on the face – all
protrusive aspects having subsided. Over years, perhaps. A depressed
index of dumb scorings, brute incisions – made using