Who Am I? If This Once I

A Game: Say Something. Close Your Eyes And Say Something. Anything, A Number, A Name. Like This (she Closes Her Eyes): Two, Two What? Two Women. What Do They Look Like? Wearing Black. Where Are They? In A Park. . . . And Then, What Are They Doing? Try It, It's So Easy, Why Don't You Want To Play? You Know, That's How I Talk To Myself When I'm Alone, I Tell Myself All Kinds Of Stories. And Not Only Silly Stories: Actually, I Live This Way Altogether.

It Was In The Black Mirror Of Anarchism That Surrealism First Recognised Itself.

There Is By My Leaning Over The Precipice Of Your Presence And Your Absence In Hopeless Fusion My Finding The Secret Of Loving You Always For The First Time

To See, To Hear, Means Nothing. To Recognize (or Not To Recognize) Means Everything. Between What I Do Recognize And What I Do Not Recognize There Stands Myself. And What I Do Not Recognize I Shall Continue Not To Recognize.

There Is No Use Being Alive If One Must Work. The Event From Which Each Of Us Is Entitled To Expect The Revelation Of His Own Life’s Meaning - That Event Which I May Not Yet Have Found, But On Whose Path I Seek Myself - Is Not Earned By Work.