“Born of literature, able to speak only with the help of its worn codes, yet I am alone with my strength, doomed to my own philosophy.” (Roland Barthes)
Press meta into footnote. Neuter consciousness and relocate color back into sky.
“Where there is a wound there is a subject.” (Barthes)
Asphyxiate lies which lay like yellow cravings. Expedite bent particles of kiss that stick into the tightened grasp of tooth against tooth.
“Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other.” (Barthes)
Catastrophic cling of doxa or business of a drift. Do not announce, (he announces). Just faint into this discourse of dream.