‘I feel as if I’ve snorted a line of office dust, or drunk a pint of bewilderment’

I’M STANDING in a London art gallery, staring at this sentence: “At the moment of becoming our thinking “I”, we reconstruct the jarring and incompatible into crazy narratives of surrealism.”

It’s been typed on a small white card and mounted on the wall to the left of a large painting, on which there is a single brown paint mark, in order to help the general public understand what the single brown paint mark means.

I read the sentence again — rev, rev, revving my brain in an effort to wrest some useful meaning out of it — but the meaning stays stuck fast inside it, like a car in a ditch.