Everything Ends With Flowers.

Wouldn't The Worst Be, Isn't The Worst, In Truth, That Women Aren't Castrated, That They Have Only To Stop Listening To The Sirens (for The Sirens Were Men) For History To Change Its Meaning? You Only Have To Look At The Medusa Straight On To See Her. And She's Not Deadly. She's Beautiful And She's Laughing.

What Happens: Events Interiors, Snatch Them From The Cradle, From The Source. I Want To Watch Watching Arrive. I Want To Watch Arrivances. I Want To Find The Root Of Needing To Eat. And Taste It: Work Of Sweat / Sleep.

I Am Sick Of Death And Worst Of All This Sickness Feeds On Itself, The More Afraid I Am The More I Am Afraid The More I Flee The More I Am Afraid The More I Am Haunted.

By Writing Her Self, Woman Will Return To The Body Which Has Been More Than Confiscated From Her, Which Has Been Turned Into The Uncanny Stranger On Display - The Ailing Or Dead Figure, Which So Often Turns Out To Be The Nasty Companion, The Cause And Location Of Inhibitions. Censor The Body And You Censor Breath And Speech At The Same Time. Write Your Self. Your Body Must Be Heard. Only Then Will The Immense Resources Of The Unconscious Spring Forth.

Perhaps What I Do Not Manage To Operate Rapidly Enough Is The Passage Between The Outside And The Inside.