I am your iron man. My iron is libidinous in and of itself; it is material. As a separate and separating category of pointing matter, it scratches boundaries onto the reference sheets - paper or otherwise - of both fantasy and reality. Faux of interaction, it plays out, and wears out, a subsistence normality, made from the errors of taboo and the desires expressed by extremity and its liberation. What emerges as apparence reads as repetition seeking the closure of disuse.
Could I, in all this, bring out the ongoing? Could I situate? Where, I ask, is the explorer?