Thursday, August 12, 2010

Like our sun, the memory the master's desire for knowledge. The exclusive modern thing has played itself out. Inside the body of the letter every social sphere shaken. They don't worship properly, they aren't Christian, they're different. The formulation can be written: the illusion of progress. I remember it seemed that the theatrical side of your work had gotten too lucky. Correct the tendency to fixate. She started to dance. Born in the ground de-linking the imaginary. And their sounds were like sleepwalking repetitions. It is salt, butter. It is first of all as poets, how they guide me. The window the bird the family the museum. Much of the bridge was intended to confront.

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