The past is not fixed, but is reconfigured by the present; books write their authors, while children strain to give birth to their mothers; and, the world is pulled asunder again and again every time a conversation occurs – so that it is impossible to speak about origins or destinies.
In the middle of things, there is only a hysterical notion, a laughing drunkenness that bellows whenever we attempt to arrive at foundations, fixed points and formulas.
Nothing survives alone. Nothing is final. This queer cosmos is grace in ecstasy, a river overflowing her banks. She will not yield to ‘you’. She will dance past your structures and despairing walls. And the people will learn to say: “The gates of Eden aren’t guarded by cherubs with flaming swords; there are no gates.”