I Am Not Innocent. Innocence Is A

Everything Ends With Flowers.

We Must Kill The False Woman Who Is Preventing The Live One From Breathing.

She Alone Dares And Wishes To Know From Within, Where She, The Outcast, Has Never Ceased To Hear The Resonance Of Fore Language. She Lets The Other Language Speak - The Language Of 1,000 Tongues Which Knows Neither Enclosure Nor Death. To Life She Refuses Nothing. Her Language Does Not Contain, It Carries; It Does Not Hold Back; It Makes Possible.

By Writing Her Self, Woman Will Return To The Body Which Has Been More Than Confiscated From Her, Which Has Been Turned Into The Uncanny Stranger On Display - The Ailing Or Dead Figure, Which So Often Turns Out To Be The Nasty Companion, The Cause And Location Of Inhibitions. Censor The Body And You Censor Breath And Speech At The Same Time. Write Your Self. Your Body Must Be Heard. Only Then Will The Immense Resources Of The Unconscious Spring Forth.

Writing Is The Delicate, Difficult, And Dangerous Means Of Succeeding In Avowing The Unavowable.