2.25.16
Even the most peaceful of human lives depend on an integral narcissistic slippage. We desire children, we desire images, we desire the multiplicitious production of ourselves again and again, we desire ourselves, always ourselves.
The world becomes a mirror. If, instead, it were a photograph — if every life were lived for the you and not the I — then, there might be hope. And even as I write this I see the words themselves become small mirrors, reflecting and refracting back my image everywhere. The hope dissipates almost instantly.














