If my desire is possible, it means the system is already letting something else through.
in the synagogue of my heart... I myself jail and the jailed, I go wounded, bite-marked
Other-Love is writing's first name.
Perhaps what I do not manage to operate rapidly enough is the passage between the outside and the inside.
I am sick of death and worst of all this sickness feeds on itself, the more afraid I am the more I am afraid the more I flee the more I am afraid the more I am haunted.
Meditation needs no results. Meditation can have itself as an end, I meditate without words and on nothingness. What tangles my life is writing.
What happens: events interiors, snatch them from the cradle, from the source. I want to watch watching arrive. I want to watch arrivances. I want to find the root of needing to eat. And taste it: work of sweat / sleep.
