Pearse’s first published literary work is déjà vu thrown in the vitamix. It is full of plotless innards, of erotic guts, presented to the reader in a pink bubble wrap envelope. It’s a sticky slur of memories asking to be peeled apart. The sweet breads aren’t preserved and instead digress to a glop of goo, glistening in the sun, waiting for desire to set in like the heat rising on summer pavement. There’s nothing to it but maybe a leaking and thickening of disembodiment, and death.
Combining found and manipulated images, Pearse’s book leads through slow, meandering vignettes. It’s a thriller with no discernible plot save fear and pheromone.
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