Something happened
about five minutes into killing this plate. I started to hate it. I named it a few times, pulling combinations from a list of four letter words I had in the back of my vocabulary, and began telling myself I would never find reason in the future to do this again. Then, like most monotonous and painful processes, the pain and monotony faded away into the process. I found a good method, stuck with it, cut myself a few times, tucked in my shirt, and then proceeded to kill my plate. I thought about getting it totally clean, and even got a little giddy at the idea of wiping it out completely, but as I got further into the demolition I began liking what bones were left when I printed. A very photocopyish look took over as the plate developed rolls and smoothed grooves, and I rather liked it. Unfortunately I kept killing until that passed and I was left with just a little bit left, and then I lost interest in it, printed it for the last time, and stopped.
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