untitled II

Who am I, whose words are these, whose are these beauties and these uglinesses I look upon, who am I and to whom do I belong. This brain, this my brain, this rancor of mine, this economy of mine—whose are they. The way this pen touches paper, a dead horse neighing at its own corpse. The blinding sound of this music playing in my head. The silence of a person without identity, without personhood, and the utter silence of plurality without any silence at all, without personhood. We were silent, we were silent, or perhaps we were not; we did not remain silent, and yet the turn always came to us, and most of all to me. I cannot make this bargain with reality, with the reality of reality, this stupidity, this stupid bargain, this bargainless stupidity. I keep apologizing, always apology, at the very least to myself, most of all to my identity, most of all to my identity in others. And to every one of them. All of them, every last one, dead or alive, from the filth of this cursed world, from its ugliness. From my lack of personhood. Forgive me, apology, all of you.