yes, yes that’s what I wanted between the invention of writing and the birth of modern science; I always wanted to return to the body, where I was born. The sudden interruption of affect, skin peeling off in long tatters revealing the musculature beneath. I am speaking of compassion, now blurred or the window, so weak and subject to so many evils; it is an empty house. The strange baby is the opposite direction to a human baby; the body bearing no mark of its debt to nature, when it is sheltered in a body that is unleashed only with the help of masculine degradation. Remember the way you italicized only the word harmony. Two unyielding protagonists appeared, disposable for this purpose, slightly blemished, thriving on hazard. Pedagogy cannot help but encounter the problem of imitation, velvet couch, red velvet, all the people I’ve ever known. Between the theme of love and sick body, this being occurs at the center of fear. It still makes sense, the inscription within a system of differences, to know the song after all. The speaking being as separated by sex and language, locomotion and digestion, as functions, stay intact. He feels small as he awakens, writing himself in that first instance. Fluctuating inside and outside, this was monstrous: the inability to assimilate. As I said to my friend, “we must now form and meditate upon the law of this resemblance.” I am writing to you, the frailty of symbolic order itself.
An interpretation of resistance throbs with blood as you ask the question. What I call the erasure of concepts night, good, night, good, good, night, ought to mark the places of that future meditation. An economy of analytic listening, historical manifestations, is undisturbed by the extraction of foreign body. The eye I look out of would be a relationship of translation. Even when human beings were involved with it, they complained of violent spasms. It’s expanse of sky, contradiction, between desire and pleasure. Ornery experience of the intimate recasting syntax and vocabulary. What I am to myself, shall constantly reconfirm that writing is the other that must be remembered. Incandescent, unbearable limit between inside and outside separated from mouths. It is the question of a supplement, where it cannot, my mind sinks, falling short of itself, is born. The violence of poetry, and silence, a depression visible in satellite photographs. Earlier in the evening the moon became capable of being imperceptible, going to bed, making love, the age of writing begins. When narrated, identity is a latticework mating to disperse your body as referent. As I said to my friend, the presence of a spectator is a violation, a silent and immobile darkness surrounds us.