dearest i say this is a love story

but theres something about the bourgeoisie  the way they hold their forks for example  the way they talk about sex as if they were reciting a particularly daring passage from foucault

no one says bourgeoisie anymore  one says sane

my life is so defined by love affairs i have nothing to say about love

having been recently promoted to Assistant Senior Vice President of Affairs and Definitions at Académie du Dictionnaire Mondial my primary role is to duplicate reality to a sufficient extent so as to further impoverish it

i cannot love my own love or love myself loving or love being loved so love lives only when love lives far away

the point is what money permits is a continuously expanding clutter of apparatuses of denial which are wholly necessary to sustain participation in an indecipherable and genocidal system

im routinely dazzled by the electronic apparatus scattered around everywhere  in fact i just remarked to tractatus that she might want to consider getting some to complement those she already has

the great repose of inner deafness through imperious repetition enables us to flee the terrible rumour of absence and get to work

i become a book and eat the book and the eating is my reading

storytelling of course has ended and the cancerous growth we have in novels confessional poetry and their hideous mutant relative creative nonfiction provides incontrovertible evidence of this  the storys based on causalities that while they never existed collapsed officially over a century ago and assumes an anthropocentrism that only survives in our infantile longings along with god and romance  having said this the prolongation of cultural corpses and the cancerous growth of cancerous growth are foundation stones of our civilization  without them we dont exist

i am liquid like a book and pour myself onto death  this speaking is my silence and i am only my telling

thats different  if the coherence of ideas isnt sufficiently firm and if one scorns the coherence that could form them  a progression will remain  lacking objectivity and subjectivity  a possible devolution of the world  the telling of the speaking becoming less a story than a sensuous moment against a darkening sky in which you have a sense of being pushed forward by your own refusal to advance  i wouldnt tell anyone this though

in life there comes a time and i think it is total that we cannot escape a place of doubting everything

accommodating yourself to reality and worrying for the rest of your life is a widespread hallmark of maturity

thats not what i mean  i mean the bourgeoisie with their access to an irony with little cost to themselves in direct proportion to a muting of their imaginations but this with significant cost exist in double movements necessarily creating a violence that they then project on what is not them and this projection is called culture

as a prostitute once told me the standards of the dead are incomprehensible to the living

where we remain after the ravishing  that spark in the manner of an aperture  no one can believe or speak or tell

were more or less saying the same thing and use our hopeless gestures to join from time to time with a silent language whose outcome is incoherent and whose confrontation with history disintegrates in ephemeralities of obliteration

we have reservations at bagatelle at nine  im going to shower