Senator Isaye's memoranda on art.

The quester's cruelty, caring about distant things while nearer things repine,
in idle abstraction thrashing about with a stick as through leaves or underbrush, trampling about the garden in ridiculous explorer get-ups acting like a knowledgeable stranger, never the most important person in the room, just the most important guest.
Spiritual searches,
the beaconed runways promising romance,
the actual languishes neglected, the actual is roused to petulant displays of fist-on-hip toe tapping, the actual throws itself against the shatterproof glass wall, the actual vanishes on wispy trails of Dopplered keening.

The cry is for new art forms; the search is for new framing devices.
Blocked artists trolling for signals, short wave trolling, nothing nothing nothing something but nothing more nothing, night watch log.