laceration of language.

How to rescue what has been captured by sight. Call this the dialect of wounds.

“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.

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