Metaphors Are Our Way Of Losing Ourselves

Nothing Is Ever Behind Us.

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.

Poetry Is The One Thing That Isn't Contaminated, The One Thing That Isn't Part Of The Game.

For Her, Reading Was Directly Linked To Pleasure, Not To Knowledge Or Enigmas Or Constructions Or Verbal Labyrinths.

Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.