Everything Ends With Flowers.

She Alone Dares And Wishes To Know From Within, Where She, The Outcast, Has Never Ceased To Hear The Resonance Of Fore Language. She Lets The Other Language Speak - The Language Of 1,000 Tongues Which Knows Neither Enclosure Nor Death. To Life She Refuses Nothing. Her Language Does Not Contain, It Carries; It Does Not Hold Back; It Makes Possible.

I Am Not Innocent. Innocence Is A Science Of The Sublime. And I Am Only At The Very Beginning Of The Apprenticeship.

The Only Book That Is Worth Writing Is The One We Don’t Have The Courage Or Strength To Write. The Book That Hurts Us (we Who Are Writing), That Makes Us Tremble, Redden, Bleed

Other-love Is Writing's First Name.

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.