As a child, I suppose, there is a longing for the perfected face, an image that is not so torn between culture, history, and idealism. That is the face, yes, once sought. But now, I am only here, unable to work, really uninspired to dissect, detail, re-write the already written, merely at the request of the reductionist (who, I am convinced nonetheless, has found certain noble and divine foundations in his work). So, without true joy, I walked here, without valid ambition and not quite alone. No, it would have been years earlier, perhaps even at the very beginning, had I been without help. They did keep me locked in step with the world, a chosen submission, of sorts, but after several attempts, taken in honest effort, the outcomes would not separate themselves from each other, each, even in its completion, a hollow resemblance to the nature of the vacuum, the bright fierce ball, the speed which has no ignition--this is the only act to resemble.
He is, himself, in pieces--literal pieces. He did not dress himself well today and, later, upon inspection, removed the unfortunate pieces of clothing and decoration. I will collect them, he muttered, eventually. I will collect them and re-place them in their proper homes, owned and catalogued.
Is he mad? Of sorts, of course. The resemblance to any hierachy, she mentions, casually (I believe she is sarcastic but almost witless, you know, indifferent to the lunacy that clearly runs all through my family), itself requires a, what would you people call it, a leap of faith? So, technically, his logic is rather faulty to suppose that any resemblance, any actual reflection, no matter how authentic he believes it to be, is merely a subjective relationship--one that holds no absolute divine power (unless, of course, by serious mistake, a critical accident). Given this overall analysis, one that I take no pleasure in delivering, we have no choice but to execute him.
She is mad for analyzing my proposition, he intones, unwilling to accept or even acknowledge his pending death. The only witness in the circle is never in the circle at all. That, I have pretended to understand, means that this long reflection, even at dawn, is simply something I could not possibly comprehend, not unless I remembered not to be involved, which of course, I am destined not to do.