November 11, 2008

Passing into the wilderness of twisted trees the mute sign is a sign of liberty. It is a frantic attempt made by a subject threatened with sinking into the void. The garden echoes across the room placing sonorous substance in parenthesis. The body’s insides compensate for the collapse of the border between inside and outside. History sings in their faces the mere presence of the spectator is a violation. Divide lines between Bataille and his very own identity sinking irrecoverably into the mother. There will be pathetic screaming circulating through other texts, leading back to it constantly. The purification rite appears then as that essential ridge. This alteration of perception and imagination must correspond to an organization of space: what flesh was left. The pure/impure opposition resents otherness. Let us reconsider the system of metaphors; hence the fool dances. He channels the institution through bisexuality of endogamic marriage. Time is some sort of hindsight, by design, one must understand condition of imitation. The most inaccessible folds of significance.

People are shouting and embracing. Either way their meaning and their limits are already contested at their root. Confronted with states of regret localized in passive sentences. You have only where you were the animal cry before the birth of language. Autoeroticism amounts to the forcing of thought. The sea moves and relaxes all our languages are the result of art. It is simply a frontier, a repulsive gift fascinating victims. What gentle echoes to speak before knowing how to speak. Properly speak once-upon blotted out time. Lacking in the power of replacing itself it is an empty house one moves through. We may call it a border radically cut through mimetic logic. The feeling of being choked in a confused music of jubilation. The impossible real ceaselessly straying. Nothing more could be said – starting from which the concept of history was formed.