Is a long process of torture, self-torture, torment, self-torment, watching all the uglinesses turning into buty, thinking alone of centuries of solitude, and unshat shit, a silence as long as its history before it was even called Terra nullius,

Moving towards a neutral position, a grey area, like the sky just now, not quite black, not quite white, not quite yellow. Just a bit blue, bluing. What I like is not important, how I feel is. In the middle of the night when the words, ‘in the middle’, came to you, eyes closed, ears listening to the dripping of piss. Dream images drifting away as if they had never been there. Not seeking to identify, or taking sides, or. Living like a tree, waiting for a car to crash. A stranger who forgets to ask who he is, what gender they are now, where he or she places himself or herself, how he or she or they would like to dress themselves next time when he or she or they go outdoors. Living thus. Living in a way that life is not made out to be

You think it’s hypocrisy? No, it’s not. You think you can cut it all clean, having nothing to do with anything, erasing a memory like removing a tumour, like burning a house, like selling a property, like splitting up with a partner? You think anything human is easily resolvable like paying a bit of money and having it done with? You think everything works as effectively as capitalism? As capital punishment? As white? You think you can treat all that like in a spring cleaning, just chucking out the ashes and forget all about it because you are no superstition, you don’t believe in all that shit, people treating their dead like the living, presenting them with good food, good meat, good dishes, dumplings even?