...language Is Never Innocent.

I Try To Busy Myself Elsewhere, To Arrive Late; But I Always Lose At This Game. Whatever I Do, I Find Myself There, With Nothing To Do, Punctual, Even Ahead Of Time.

Through The Mythology Of Einstein, The World Blissfully Regained The Image Of Knowledge Reduced To A Formula.

Ensnared In His Starvation, Chaplin-man Is Always Just Below Political Awareness. A Strike Is A Catastrophe For Him Because It Threatens A Man Truly Blinded By His Hunger; This Man Achieves An Awareness Of The Working-class Condition Only When The Poor Man And The Proletarian Coincide Under The Gaze (and The Blows) Of The Police.

Isn’t The Most Sensitive Point Of This Mourning The Fact That I Must Lose A Language — The Amorous Language? No More ‘i Love You’s.

Am I In Love? --yes, Since I Am Waiting. The Other One Never Waits. Sometimes I Want To Play The Part Of The One Who Doesn't Wait; I Try To Busy Myself Elsewhere, To Arrive Late; But I Always Lose At This Game. Whatever I Do, I Find Myself There, With Nothing To Do, Punctual, Even Ahead Of Time. The Lover's Fatal Identity Is Precisely This: I Am The One Who Waits.