My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's

[as] Authorities "over" Us Are Removed, As We Wobble Out On Our Own, The Question Of Whether To Be Or Not To Be Arises With Real Relevance For The First Time, Since The Burden Of Being Is Felt Most Fully By The Self-determining Self.

My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's Clothing. Her Rhinestones Injure Me. See: My Feet Are Going. Fish Flee The Forefinger Of My Aunt. The Sun Streams Over The Geraniums. What Has This To Do With What I Feel, With What I Am.

How Do We Know, Then, When A Code's Been Cracked?when We Are Right?when Do We Know If We Have Even Received A Message? Why, Naturally, When, Upon One Set Of Substitutions, Sense Emerges Like The Outline Under A Rubbing; When A Single Tentative Construal Leads To Several; When All The Sullen Letters Of The Code Cry Team! After Yea! Has Been, By Several Hands, Uncovered.

When Book And Reader's Furrowed Brow Meet, It Isn't Always The Book That's Stupid.

If There Were Genders To Genres, Fiction Would Be Unquestionably Feminine.