This is important. I'm trapped, somewhere dark, with only this unreliable dial-up, obviously left to me as the only way I can communicate. Just woke up here, confined. No idea how, no idea why. Previously I was applying myself to aspects of * like the rest of you, admittedly with disdain and disinterest. So is this a form of revenge upon me for that I wonder? I've been wondering all kinds of things. I am fed and watered twice a day, seemingly by a machine. This box is iron or steel, soundproofed and the air is scant at times. I think I hear trains to my left. I spent the first weeks screaming. But now in order to increase my chances of a helpful response I'm pretty silent. I have no interest in tolerating this situation. I did no choose it. I cannot say how anyone might find me. I am hoping for a miracle. Niki


Lazare said...

thumbs out.

murmurists said...

Dismayingly perhaps, established ideals tend to usurp one another; forming a somewhat linear, generalised system, at once only symbolically political, only vaguely institutionalised, at once historical and anarchistic, in eschewing personal thought as a fund of self-government. Right or wrong, though, I will perform no other function than to informalise those realms of public opinion which the mainstream converts into social pressure, in an attempt to direct any readers towards another species of democracy: a polis of modern times which is coherently communal, which is less inclined towards the pitfalls and faux-inspirations of more decentralized, more purportedly participatory situations. This work I do under the rubric of 'His Proposals for the Apparatus'. If I seem either sectarian or dogmatic in so doing, then so be it.

Ms. Roberta Ellison
Paris, France

Lazare said...

uninvolvement plans. this end i watch out for life as perpetuum mobile, procastinating the eclipse of pure reason. unfathom bonding. release tufts of black hair as metaphysical incantations. persist and obliterate. the country is quiet at this time of the year, its mysteries safe, and silence abounds. we gather around puddles of clotting blood and soak our fingers in them. i'll meet you there if you wish, a withering sun.

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