Other-love Is Writing's First Name.

I Am Not Innocent. Innocence Is A Science Of The Sublime. And I Am Only At The Very Beginning Of The Apprenticeship.

In The Synagogue Of My Heart... I Myself Jail And The Jailed, I Go Wounded, Bite-marked

Everything Ends With Flowers.

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.

Explore The Idea Of What The Language That Women Speak Would Really Be Like If No One Were There To Correct Them.