The Stream of Life

I've studied mathematics, which is the madness of reason—but now I want plasma, I want to feed directly from the placenta. I'm a little frightened, still afraid to give myself over since the next instant is the unknown. Do I make the coming instant? Or does it make itself? We make it together with our breathing. And with the ease of a bullfighter in the ring.

Those instants that elapse in the air I breathe: in fireworks exploding silently in space. I want to possess the atoms of time. And I want to capture the present which, by its very nature, is forbidden me: the present flees from me, the moment escapes me, the present is myself forever in the now.

I ate my own placenta so I wouldn't have to eat for four days. To have milk to give you. The milk is a this. And no one is me. No one is you. This is solitude.