To Be A Rebel Is Not To

A Revolution Is Not The Overturning Of A Cart, A Reshuffling In The Cards Of State. It Is A Process, A Swelling, A New Growth In The Race. If It Is Real, Not Simply A Trauma, It Is Another Ring In The Tree Of History, Layer Upon Layer Of Invisible Tissue Composing The Evidence Of A Circle.

I'm Slammed With An Identity That Can No Longer Say A Word; Mute With Responsibility.

Life Is A Publicity Stunt. A Shill. You've Been Had.

In Sex One Wants Or Does Not Want. And The Grief, The Sorrow Of Life Is That One Cannot Make Or Coerce Or Persuade The Wanting, Cannot Command It, Cannot Request It By Mail Order Or Finagle It Through Bureaucratic Channels.

During Depression The World Disappears. Language Itself. One Has Nothing To Say. Nothing. No Small Talk, No Anecdotes. Nothing Can Be Risked On The Board Of Talk. Because The Inner Voice Is So Urgent In Its Own Discourse: How Shall I Live? How Shall I Manage The Future? Why Should I Go On?