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.

I wake in the peristaltic predawn an arbitrary, exterminating power. Let me see what you’re looking at. I wrote to you but you did not reply. Each gesture is a common one, confesses itself in desire and in defeat. It is difficult to write about love, to get along with trampled-down law. Why, love, does it make such a difference not to be in the form of a bird, what serves to recall the bird of prey when it does not return straight to the fist. I don’t know how to measure this constituted by primal repression. There is no ethics without the presence of the other but also, and consequently, without absence, dissimulation, detour, differánce, writing. How do you know the bones of your pelvis, nonsense or the impossible real? There are senses. At the same time the sun is shining brightly the symptom permeates me, edged with the sublime. Your lips are red and bright with love. You turned your voice away from what you secretly loved. The non-ethical opening of ethics intervals between echo silence.

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 am I 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.