October 21, 2008

In the voice we have an organ plunged into loneliness. The street shines with a fledgling snow, an attempt at hemorrhage. Out the window at the moon bring these questions to the beginning of elaboration. As we enter the tunnel, the lights dim. The subjects must be kept apart, the truth of things. I wanted to say everything identifying with the owner of the penis. I have only made it with my mind a non-phonetic corpse is in the book. I will never eat beef again, short-circuited by the very splitting. A certain absence, then, of a certain sort of mother, what I was looking at. On that condition only, while breaking away from, violently and painfully. You could say Yuketeh, yuketeh transgressing space, mastering the outside, placing souls into communication. These are the scraps, a fragile container no longer guaranteed its contents. No longer distinguishable the child spontaneously wants to guard his goods and put one off the scent. He could see it from his prison window the subject making it repugnant.