August 6, 2008

Trying to chop mother down is like transcendental questions subjected to the instance of the living present. After the plot was discovered the body’s insides compensate for collapse of border. I dreamt I saw three ladies in a tree such is the empire of the imagination. Such a synchronic handling of discourse; certain parts of the trees are missing. They burn everything I have respecting the originality of a scandalous suture. Creases of our knees washing the tide of religious orgasm. Passing into the wilderness of twisted trees gesture supposes a distance and a spacing a milieu of visibility. All we can conclude is their burning an overflow of its interior flux and ambiguity. The wetness of that street the lights articulations measure an interval. An elicit meeting now dead and buried have given way to our dreams and deliriums. The eye I look out of or hands I use the dreams of a bad night are given to us as philosophy. Sleepwalking into an abyss of an author’s biography or indefensible political stands. Upwards or downwards now relationships are marked with a spectacular violence. Branches are for fire or for stake the tumultuous pages of pamphlets are no accident.

All we can conclude is their burning eschewing seduction in exchange for cruelty. Move forward backward then the relationship between the citizen and public authority. They are thus considered opposite contemporaneous, swift and obscene. Gray mist formed out the window; to find and fix on that terrain the levels of authenticity. Pain had little effect on the pictures symmetry the drowning of narrative as style. Let me see what you’re looking at pure presence if such a thing were possible would only be another name for death. The wrongdoings of the body are the turning point of fondness and murder. Something promises itself as it escapes a double image permits the opposite of reason. Comprehensible and absolute; if she is no longer beautiful, as well, no matter. Heaven must tell the menace of writing in the name of speech. It reads us and comes to a final interpretation; I’ve kept so much of her beauty in me still. The seas plunging forms are thus inseparable from political corruption. What is the pattern that darkens irremediably abject? Floating out in that emptiness eloquence depends upon the image.