And it is not but mention the words ever, those that appear on the covers of the books that promote new solutions to marital conflict, or the so-called recurrent depression much less dangerous than AIDS: emotional disaster, disaster, scriptural, soul disaster, disaster. As the holder of a tabloid newspaper, as a banality that is stuck in an endless display. All that remains is that promontory where names always on, as the addition of a breathing, as fears of play, as the fear of not doing so, as a constant affront unlikely death at the hands of self. And how encyclopaedic readings have been killed, leaving at least one letter, a small uprooting serve for hours, to get drunk and sleep and wake up sore. No choice but to fill something with words, with mentions of the unspeakable, with the demarcation of the boredom that only runs through aging. The rivers are plotted on the face, waiting for the years that one hopes to avoid.
Aszeta
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