paraph. block10/part6
“How do you know when the work is done?” A question coming by now from who. No one stands by, two maybe with one's will. I did (for all the definitions).
“Inside a heat reckons a daring backspace.” (: work already over, long live the work). What was the meaning?
...
“Yeah babe, talk dirty mythologems to me.”
On the desk an accountancy of itches. Ogives for theses without antitheses. A Greek-cross groundplan intelligence. Useful informations for the days ahead about the stratosphere, the endless Anthropocene. I contemplated tv or the floor tiles. Slanderer by incompetence.
“You know too well the way you are depicting it is not the way it is.” (I knew, so didn't answer). She chases: I answered, the eleventh string coming to my mind, after perfection. This is dramatization.
Again: even if there were the words, there wasn't the map or a scheme of steps. Will I be next to? Another day in the office. The permanent is artificial. You only want to answer why but you receive more answers than saturnalia.
“Please do not remove credits.”
Untouching the touching, again mistouching, miss untouchable. Mismatched: an ambush of second times.
{“Would you die?”}
{“That's an affirmative, let's trade places.”}
{“You just need too many organs. Don't even know how to go on.”}
“The butt! The butt!” in Marlon Brando style aka Colonel Kurtz aka Mother of all philosophers.
Pulpit. The unctuous indistinguishability of time lapsed. So I was reminded of the permanence of my words and the power to not say anything and their power to prompt me. The need to read Agamben again. I existed fully folly in the lucid misread of Blanchot.
