A familiar taste, approaching the page: I’m in our decaying now, from here on out.

First off, I confess: I’m an imaginary being blanching with supposed integrity, muddled in all the movements I make. I dream myself split wide open by forces I dream outside me, but they just are me. By the end, I no longer fight this coo-coo of sensuality, no longer feel ashamed of its ravages, and I flail madly, without regrets, despite the headache it so often brings.

I call this our world rid of private property and God. Which takes no effort to “accomplish.” What is to change has changed already, imperceptibly, often.

I lean back, prostrate, relaxed. Ants crawl under me and invade my crevices. I flick them off without annoyance, hardly witnessing it. What’s in is out, what’s out is in! Nothing.

Watching the temperate procession broach and pass by, expose and disappear, I could very well be dreaming. There I go again! But this time, I’m seeing.

I mean to say that where we land matters. What comes into our hands is no coincidence. And where we come to death is everyone’s business.

The generosity of any presence. Which reminds me that I meant to say: departing is finitude’s condition. No one ever catches up with what they’re reading. We disincline ourselves from it in order to be at all.

But drawing back from presence, we draw it out. And that’s that, you see. History!


Between a feeling of freedom and illness is a kind of reluctant grace, which we experience in the ambiguity of being a human being at all. This is the question that we are posing: what is it to exist? What is this “universe”?

Another conjecture: the universe is kindness, the kindness of a void, which gives of itself and gives up everything, to the point of its utter despair and anxiety, to the point of emotional gifts which do not lie in us. And yet, when trying to express this, we deceive ourselves. We’re the primary dupe of our performance, and we know it. But we love our self-argument; the pleasure we derive from it is almost too much for us to bear. Which is just to say that our expression of it, our emotion, is never quite enough. It never matches up to what is there— or rather not there yet. Something more than we can tell is “behind it all.” And so to express something, to feel something, isn’t much. Then again, what else have we got?

No matter what gets said here, it’s always just us coming along, far ahead of ourselves, always one step behind…

Touchstone of solitude, knowledge of the night. Nothing like it has ever existed before. Gumption is required for it: reviving every one of fate’s “accidents.” It requires our acceptance of the course of things and that we bear it.

Stricken to unimaginable excesses, we muster ever more extasies, experiences, those exhaustions that rid us of our past and future tense. Deep in these “inner recesses,” there is a resource that comes only from the inassimilable: the courage to go forward despite the darkness of sensory life, despite the bar between our selves and self-knowledge.

…letting a yellow and sickly light shine through to revive us, through the imaginative grate of the person bars, hooked finally to every desire of the collectivity…

…fiery storm from the sky of Babel spelling you out for the fun of it, despite your macabre lull…

…refusal to accede to the self-same like the toenail that grows from the skeleton…

…decay itself as a way to tame wreckage…

…something or someone lifted up from it: a message, a messenger, munitions, a method…

…a punitive measure…

…a call from a friend…


And yet I’m saddened by the way it turns out… the way I look stoic and calm when my insides are churning and screaming… the way expression fails emotion… the way intelligence is blind to the very obscenity of its own movement…

Actually, I’m humiliated by it. The simple passage of time has me pitted against everything I’ve been. Every relationship seems to be coming to an end… maybe some will keep up. Am I prepared for what’s coming? Is it really loneliness? I am irrelevance, impotent but unlimited in that. (I want to say “sacred,” but cower back…)

As if I could chase down magnificence on my own two feet! But I can’t tell where I’m at, or where I’ve been. Whose voice is this again? But it’s from that voice that I have such difficulty detaching. Impossible to escape its inclusiveness. And so there’s no telling where I’m coming from. But I wanted to write something that could matter to everyone nonetheless. What a pitiable goal to set! And I’m asking myself initially: what good could come from any poetic or philosophical work? A life that much more “enriched”? Or, contrarily, a life exposed to its own inexistence? This is getting me nowhere…

There’s a real idiocy in any endeavor once every human achievement looks to us to be an achievement for the somnambulant: we stand on the winner’s podium with a glazed look, the whole ordeal a scene of zombies flourishing, ignorant of death, unaware of their profound continuities. It comes to nothing, returns to nothing; but still we beg for some transitory hook that might catch us along the way, easing this oppressing feeling that we’re getting nowhere despite our inestimable efforts. But in it (the hook? nowhere?), everything breaks off…

Yes, I yearn to be true in my connection to you, but I don’t know which lead to take. I can’t anticipate the path on which we’ll “meet,” or if you’ll write me off regardless. But this ambition of mine (as if I had one!) is not chained in by the past. This is your average space. It is what we, spaced out in it, are drawn to. Not that I could write what calls you. Not that it could come from anywhere else.


Stricken to think (edit). Stricken to fail. Stricken to walk away slowly with a smirk on my face. Stricken to refuse lightheartedness (which is shackled to the pathos of reminiscence).

Stricken to write, to listen, to say nothing, to edge away, listening only to the cries (they’re all failures…)

Stricken to smell like an animal. Stricken to be stared at like an animal.

She is right to observe that it’s all babble and that it’s easy to mistake it for something that has to do with God. Mystic prattle— perhaps. But perhaps that is what the covenant comes to after all: gossip between deities, the obscenity of serenity itself. She and I were being pulled in opposing directions anyway and she went off storming. When I said, “Things have a way of shaping up despite ourselves,” she answered in a way that made me doubt whether anything really did: “I’m glad you can feel that way.” Of course I knew I was lying: I wanted her, but it was impossible…

Can you imagine the sentences not coming one after the other? Knowledge? I can’t pick up on the sequence, obvious or not.

Can you imagine that there will be events after you’re dead? (Let it go, Griever, it’s all in your head…)

Can you imagine what time would be like if we didn’t chain ourselves to the supposed linearity of its “progression”?


It’s as if my very life were an afterthought: a mountain I kept crawling up, every summit just an illusion. The decline, the terrifying much worse. I’m always coming up to yet another base camp, running out of oxygen. I can’t keep myself from looking back at what’s already been walked; but I can hardly find a continuity between my eye-sockets looking forward. I’m attached to what can’t last: my current place. But I’m apprehensive and indecisive when it comes to the next place for me to assume. Wandering— can it be a place after all?

Sheer idiocy: trying to transform the journal of a desperate life into some semblance of literature. I tell myself I can’t tell myself apart from the demands it places on my words. No base from which to survey the totality of my efforts or discern them from myself. The levels are off, the dungeon’s full…

My non-existence yet implores me forward: I catch a glimpse of my own ruin already achieved. I’m at peace with it. But every day: lack of clarity regarding my next move.

I succumb to averages and whims, thus fulfilling the goal of killing my spirit, because what couldn’t rise from its ashes? I’m housed in flimsy flesh, shout-out…

But there’s no way to bring about an easy death. I wait anxiously to expire, to leave them with nothing but this: my dust and its testament. Its urgency is devastating… but seems like a lull in action, a failure to act. A response, unresponsive, hidden…

I seem to require unimaginable suffering… but all of a sudden, it’s vanished…


You’ve never heard a scream as soft as the one I’ve been making. I’ve been trying to strip myself of my past, my reluctances, but I forgot that I was doomed to remain with them, to ride them out: until I wrote myself out of the picture altogether. That’s what you could say is “my desire.” Unless I’m just wasting my energy. But you’re coming along with me, so it takes time extra.

Artistic creation is nothing if not the struggle of a soul transformed by its transparency, which is to say, by the truth of its flesh. Art is what transforms them both. A simultaneous alternation, without reference or contamination. But how to draw the line between this impersonal framing of reference and the solid intimacy of our being-personally-involved-with-it? Any line at all between soul and body?

I said: Art ushers us to where we’re nothing, where we fit into whatever “something there” happens to be. There (“here,” surely?), the eye flits.

I’ve unearthed a lasting creation by never thinking past the next sentence, by letting its animus flit otherwise. Your experience of truth is my only guarantor (which has nothing to do with the truth-value of what’s written ). I’m charged with choking out every hint that would lead you on. For I remember the scent of her hair, our Sophia, and the wonder we experienced when we caught that scent (though she seems to have abandoned me for her own paradise and I can’t blame her, “I” being nothing but a lamenting phallus, caged in a dirge, diluted, incoherent…)

I lie waiting for the next connection-corrective, spliced open by the forgetfulness of love. I have no current, nothing conducts. However you count me up, I’m decreasing. I seem to be cowardice, embedded, covert, redeeming.

But I wanted to feel your nakedness as my own and die because of it. So that maybe, just maybe, in my laments you’d detect that I wasn’t. And likewise: that I never was.

My one comfort? The ravings of impersonality, the failure of vision, the elimination of the sound.


I’m chasing improvement as if it were possible, because I’ll never be okay with what’s created. So I’m begging for the past to be erased. If only I could share my loneliness, my muse.

What did I expect? Nothing but disturbed images are coming through. Nothing but more stances to reject, hopes to attune. I am Beauty’s sorry handicap, the glorious attenuated monstrum of the nous. Even my despair feels put on once I start speaking about it… but I’m devastated by the immediate onset of my nothingness… this stupid transcript of what the seething multitude of spirits evil and ugly have done to me, the fright they’ve sent me in, this transitional period that extends from my Hell to your Heaven. I’m buckling under their weight (they’re indiscernible for the living)… but I’m recovering. Nothing but hatred for myself? Hardly. But I can feel it coursing through my veins: coagulating, cooking, spoiling, exhausting itself with petty worries, then singing…

I didn’t write this “consciously” (as if that were a possibility!). We’ve so much more to discover in our trek to the summit. I wanted us to really feel it. To broach the impossible.

Did I feel it? What could that mean? And what would it matter, “what it meant”? Aren’t you the one feeling your way through it, saying some dumb words with me, going along?

“I’m ruined, overjoyed finally, because of it.”


Urge to weep. Tearless, this sentence is most perplexing. Tearless, it’s but transformation hesitating—the rawness of censorship encountered deep within us. And at that edge (the tear), we’re hearing it.

Urge to weep, to reach… what’s the difference?

Absence of any consolation: there’s a lamp on in the middle of the day, but it doesn’t even lend a dour glow to the sterile white of the scene. I’m reaching for palaces that disappear when you see them…

This is the fiasco of the impersonal one, evacuated of consciousness, lost in the rapture of loss and dream, gesticulating in the sense of some fleeting oneness unfinished…

…like a dead-ringer in his coffin like a phantom singing…

The image is empty in the image bin. My imagination is barren. I’m the pangs of existing translated.

Who can share my pain, but the one who is likewise incapacitated?

Who thus can shake it, caring for the “me”?

The translation is unbearable. This gap is as wide as the time that separates scribe and surveyor. I’m an embarrassment to us both: naked, impotent, desirous, wasted. I sought happiness in all the wrong places and now it’s latched its greedy mitts on to me. I’m left wafting disgrace and regret, satiated by nothing. I can never quite achieve or agree with what I’m offering. I’m left flickering out and loved for it.

…pointless writhing of the Phoenix-flame!, your voiceless…

Induction to the most manifest companionship, I continue a pact passed down through the ages: I am the Sonic unhinged, mastering it!

((Superhuman irrelevance))

…ambiguity of love and its thirteen tenses…

…reach of the unconquerable… distance…

…coughing up blood… sentiment…


So much for God! I tried to pray yesterday but couldn’t get past the part that says, “Who art in heaven”— what a farce! If only I could be “at peace.”

… It’s right in front of me… (?) …

Ageless pity, ageless sorrow. I miss you so much, beloved; but the imagination is worth nothing now that you’ve fled. I can’t transform it, I can’t lift it up. I’m drowning in you, God, I know it, but you won’t do anything about it. It’s all up to me and I’m lost on my own now, from here on out without you. I can’t even put on the front of a person prison-pored … and yet I’m slaving in it (myself) for you. For I remember your soft touch, your madness-vocable. I know you still love me despite my own sorrowful absence. After all: I’m the bastard, not you.

You who’ve made it so for some incomprehensible reason, I’m grappling with it, dreadfully encoded in the whole lineage, stricken to it, splintering, trying to manage the truth of your death in the skin of my helpless self, who wanted only to run for shelter…

Would that you were ever there!

((Can’t you see it yet? We’re just talking to ourselves. This “you” fails as a referent, fails to refer to anyone… but you. Or whoever is there listening in. No, I couldn’t imagine you any other way, you offering-receiver, you dawn-revealer, you bud-breather, you beast…))

…soaked in the solitude of a body… empty as a mountain moving into words…

…in your arms, pulverized, boiled… returned to the pure mush of potentials…

…glossy, red, heat-charged, exhausted…

…delighted… at last…


Sheer magnitude of interrelational possibilities, I dream in love of the multitude…

…like a dust bunny on the floor of the palace halls combusting…
…like an “after all” never blooming into fullness…
…like a more-than-what-I-imagined-for-us-all-along…
…like the aptitude of the multitude singing the love of a soul-forager…

I keep saying what I am… but I return to nothing…

Mark, mark, mark… inscription… de-ceased…

Death, my best friend… you, my mug…

This astringent love, proceeding at its own pace, brings me closer to the truest of statements, which I embellish like a Christmas card, begging you to share our year of storied striving with a picture…

…like a dark corner that loves dark corners, thriving in withering…
…like hope expiring, raised up to unstomachable levels of grace…
…like nothing but the grace of what’s to come…
…like not being alone, ever…

I’m warm here in God’s womb, your sight, the friendly One.

You, inside of everything.

((Nothing but grace to choose, moments to love, you generic autonomous, you glorious boon…))

God: the embrace of any uncomfortable, the perfect tune…

…like an in-love-witheveryone that speaks

This is the madness of the released: it’s psychotropic, imploring you to dust, imploring you to dust off your desire, to soar high above the multitude by tearing them forward…

…like being magnificent: with-them-without-words


You caught me: I’ll say anything to start you thinking, and won’t stop. No matter what comes up, no matter what’s constructed, no matter how long it takes, I’ll be patient, I’ll wait for the silence and the moan, I’ll stand by the window knowing no one is coming, without direction, without knowing where to go. I’m jazzed up by the loveliness of whoever’s nearest, the way anything begins sparkling before dawn.

((I’m the demon who was inside me all along, who’s now a decrepit none, guiding everything back to no matter who, no matter what: you, above it, soaring, devouring…))

Waiting for the smack of God’s glove:
A give-and-take process
Going on right at what we say
Which is bogus but believable anyways
So you might as well enjoy it while it lasts…

Mighte as well codify a Savior at last…

I’m… the momentum of its ash, heaped in piles near the campsite, where we sat and ate nothing, giggling at the life in the geese. They greeted us, we greeted them, exchanging, “We can’t believe it,” but never huddling from there on in. We breathed a kind of catastrophe in our mouths, not knowing the ins-and-outs of persistence and not caring.

Love that could do so much more than we thought, reach so much farther than we knew…

Something (God) beckons to us in our dreams of it. We’ll define it like that so we won’t have to so easily believe in “reality”. It’s not worth our demands, nor our demanding it; what it demands is that we question it. It’s there as if to say, “You don’t even have to think of it and you care for them! There’s no way around it, Perplexed!”

But don’t be embarrassed by it, or sad. It’s just the shadow of it, the struggle— uncovered, made fair.

Poetry as the encapsulation and demolition of language. (Thoughts never dying, manifest…)


To inscribe the potential of loneliness overcome— work for “ghosts”— is a system of marked emotions that seduce and annul us despite our convulsions otherwise. On this point, don’t forget the type of unestablished relationship that “reading” is— which is not to say it remains “mysterious.”

This description? A gift that is a looming tingle, stuck in jeopardy, dreaming up endless answers over the footbridge, while we stand in the middle, separated…

Used to my lack of vocabulary, unaccustomed to using mere words, I abandon that average usage wherein language is merely a set of references, where the link between things and the words we use seems self-evident. I turn against this use (which is the ruse of the information age) towards the inactual origin of the logos, which I can’t prove by speaking of it (who would need to prove it?). So I take note of the indeterminable by retrieving it from its determinations, whether they’re rigid and demanding or transient and hopeful, salvaging the logos from whatever spectrum the delusions assume in their parade of sensitive relations. And so I restore the feeling that we’re actually able to take note of our consciousness, without the reservations of the self which feels delimited by language. Because there’s nothing like it, because it’s never like itself, and because to refer to it is to already have referred to nothing like it. The self appreciates this, because it’s allowed to speak again. Freely. Without caring exactly “who it is.”

There’s genius when what seem to be discrepant things interlock (times, states, statements). A genius in what crosses us, what flies far beyond us both. What once contained itself within itself has spilled out— we’re speaking of consciousness— and it’s emptied every essence for an existence outside itself. It’s going (to go) ever further, to give (again and again) a concretization to this one moment of moments cohabitating. It’s (going) there for whoever’s most other in you. “I” am introjected only insofar as I force something to go wrong with the determinate series (of times or persons). But it isn’t me who forces this interlocking of times and persons! Although something does trail off with respect to thinking because of “my” perilous objectivity. If someone (you, inevitably?) returns to it (thinking, or “my” message?), this returning doesn’t annul the fact that there is no returning to it: to return there, eternally, would never be to return to the Same. To return here is to have already been disputed, made different. A voice that’s losing its steam needs all the listening power we can give it, if it’s really to be heard and harkened on.

A trail that loses its way traverses all its possibilities qua the ambiguity of its destination. There’s no way to match up to its cut except to walk it— to “circumcise the heart”— and rewrite it.

You are welcome to abandon me without cause— but we’re abandoned to each other anyway! In spite of literature, or because of it, we read the world together: the emptiness of everything literal, emotions included. And yet you could never leave me because I could never exit my emotions. Writing is not their translation but a part of their concretion: I’m dying, divorcing myself from all I’ve been, and I don’t have a reason for it, except the need to leave my emotions aside. There’s no “going beyond them” save when I’m most vacuous and self-opposed— whereby I’m exposed to the excessive joy that each and every emotion can’t admit, but harbors.

So we feel the whole weight of times to come in the very instant we attend to our finitude, which is to attend to the inevitability of our decomposition, the fact that we’re forever barred self-return. Its weight is in the way we feel the pulse and impulse of the bodies, even if we just glance past them.

A conjunction of slices only gives an illusion of totality; it’s the disjunction itself that’s “real,” the substance or the subject of the slice that’s “illusory.”

I’m repeating myself, I know. The totality of conscious thought (emotion) weighs on our (un)consciousness in every instant. I’m at a loss for words on this point. None of our self-attributions prove correct; writing occurs where the self’s superfluity shines brightest on the razor’s edge of chaos/creation, gladness/spite, connection/nihilation, love/hate. Text can clarify none of these things, but it clarifies us. “Writing” designates an act, perhaps ethical, but not a codification. It’s not something you would look at, except by video camera, and then you would assuredly see absolutely nothing happening (except maybe a blankness staring blankly at a blankness— and vice versa!). Its absent body fills us up with the fantasy of being present to it, when really we have just run our hands across it, losing our grip. It’s like remembering someone we have loved and lost: a useless torment you indulge because you still love them…

The whole weight of this encounter is there even in the averted glance, in shying or looking away, even and especially in a reaction filled with haste, for if we didn’t look away (from time to time, or most often), it’d be a pornographic nightmare: the obscenity of being-too-close-up, the image of a dungeon-master appeased only when cutting at himself.

And then? Collapse. We think we’re someone else, because we can’t be that which thinks of us.

But… how can I say that? To say that there really is nothing, but us? Except perhaps to say: I know, I feel that it is so…


The courage of the sage: to leave no trace (because whatever’s tracking here is non-thematizable). It’s an apocryphal event (I’m drowning in it).

He who must forgive everything for his own peace requires that everyone forgive him for the peace he seeks— because his gesture of forgiveness is a sword in the tongue, a lethal injection into yours. He begs you to forgive yourself for finding peace, since to find it is to lose its driving core, which alone is tumultuous and revolutionary. And yet: everything we experience is a moment of the revolution waning, declining from the summit, a moment of ease at the base-camp. Which is yet our chance to look up even higher. The “at ease” of the animal returning to its cavern, no longer buggered by God: in this flash, he is not wrong to think himself divine. On the other hand, this “ease” means death…

The real gift is a consciousness at rest in knowing that consciousness is nothing but a register of unrest. No matter what, there’s no “degree zero.”

I cannot access myself! I’m the fantasy of “being-myself” because I can’t relate to what animates me (me!), because I can never “get at” who I am or may come to be. The object of my desire is truly unfathomable. What a stupid and pointless “torment”! It’s a murderous incantation, bedeviled.

We’re incomprehensible to ourselves, but never to others! (That’s the real blessing…)

I almost wish I could be rid of this urgency at the heart of the real, but it’s impossible now that I know what I know of this dreary representation “the world.” So I find a kind of murderous peace by forsaking it, by entering this “inability to respond.”

I’m a cog in an unprogrammed machine, whose code is uncompiled. And I bear an isolation which is the law of being, but which I know I never bear alone. And so I bear history: a love which is huge and insurmountable. Something like speaking the name of the other, speaking in the name of my other. Speaking, and waiting. Demanding nothing. Finally, the pressure I feel to have continuous or stable emotions, to “reign myself in,” is unlearned, because it undercuts my ability to respond to this utterly discontinuous phenomenon, the world (the collective in requirement of listening). So follow closely my arrivals, because it’s hard to notice “when they happen.”

Language: poison of the inorganic, parasite on the cohesiveness of what comes naturally, empowering it…

My whole life!— at the whims of an imaginary collective, in search of a universal law of action that wouldn’t immediately be scoff at, which returns to this “norm” of reading, emoting, sensing, writing— and allowing every being-whole there be— swallowing it.

We’re never “past it” until we’re long through thinking of “getting past it.” Sharing is our shibboleth alone, and if we do find ourselves, we do so in its draft. Is it that we’re neither ourselves nor the other? Or both? Or does this remain undecidable? How this answers my own questions answers nothing. How it might answer yours is another story entirely. One thing I know for sure is: there is no formula for going forward, but whatever the next stage looks like, it excludes me. It’s unique to the path that diverges from it and leads elsewhere. I had once dreamt of keeping up with it, but serendipity depleted me.

I’m surrendered to kilning this black body of clay, hearing and heating up— relating, relaying, repeating, speaking up— and drifting away, surpassing by questioning, but never surpassing questioning (this question we are), and yet letting what surpasses me arise unquestioned (this profusion of nothing we are being).


Tender time on lips divine
Rolling and roiling
Imperceptibly sublime
Alert to the motions made
Redefining our notion of days
Whether I’m here
Or not when I fail:
Two versions of reality
Caught in another reality
Caught in another reality
Some kind of progress

Or process I’m trying to define slips away. Not caught in it myself, I was solely the fray: like filaments of silk, opened to the air with fresh seeds, catching on to whatever nudged up against my plume, myself unaware of the coming plot, drop-off, and land, I keep up because it’s demanded of me, long after I myself went missing, long after, it seemed (but hardly!), I had said everything. Progression of theory in transit to dreams, where the real of reality seethes, where our novel compact is nightly unwound. I untie myself in it without making a sound. Silence is so rare a thing, so few pour forth their countenance…

I’m as rare as they could make me, then: utterly fatal.

The hidden line, a third voice, ungrounded, unplayable.


disclose the real
of being
the void
which is no nothingness
but a deceit
who plays
at a remark
back to itself
as if returning
back to itself
without ever



(1) This is true for all writers, but not always as evident. It is not yet true for Augustine, who did more than just confess (doctrines, sermons, etc.). It is first articulated explicitly by Montaigne, who wanted his essays to be “consubstantial” with his life. This desire seems to emerge into philosophy as such with Nietzsche. It is not true for Marx, Heidegger, Freud, but is true for Tzara and Bataille. It is always explicitly true for poets and– of course, by the end, it is true for everyone: our being and our language are inseparable like body and soul.

(2) Such writing is “politically” motivated in Jean-Luc Nancy’s exact sense:

“Political” would mean a community ordering itself to the unworking of its communication, or destined to this unworking: a community consciously undergoing the experience of its sharing. It implies being already engaged in the community, that is to say, undergoing, in whatever manner, the experience of community as communication: it implies writing. We must not stop writing, or letting the singular outline of our being-in-common expose itself. (The Inoperative Community, 1986)

“I” am others, am another, am othered. How do we really expose ourselves to this? As you can see, this dilemma of community is being pushed toward its detachment from the schema of the subject–even when this subject is conceived as a “place of communication”– and deeper into its relation, its being-outside-itself, its being exposed to as being revealed by the community of others. This community is not a work, but resists immanence. The community is the “inaccessible,” or at least “unavowable.” This is the space that this work tries to enter.

(3) To be more precise, this book is untenable in a digital format, because it is not suited to an “all at once.” This book takes time; it simply cannot be swallowed whole. The way that it “operates” has no logic given outside the reading of it: its long-term nearness to another body. Lines enter into reality as appropriate to it; they are accessed at random. I consider it all to be eminently rearrangeable; whatever “order” is there is to be credited  to time’s own (dis)order. These are thoughts to be glanced at, glanced through; their essence is to slip away, to fall into oblivion. They are meant to jump out when they jump out, and no time in between. In that sense, this book is not made to be “read.” It jumps out of the landscape like a sunset, its impact just as subtle (yes, it can be ignored!), its duration just as long or short, its blindness total. That’s the only thing this book is dedicated to: dawn (and the passage through the night…).

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4 Responses to ME, EASED, ERASED

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