"blanchot, .... confronting thE disaster" are you really so Sure?|PS

who is speaking when? it is night. the arms of the sky are on us. we are heavenly glances between your thigh. yer beauty. or sexy majestic presence. hand slipped, mine , slipped down the gully of those jeans as you leaned inward at the pharmacy. yes, Yesssssssss Yes.

now here is some sexy stuff . so to speek.w ill see . lookee like bacon but tis blanchot del and some other s. As watch to Mona her skimpy skirl to desiremachine

by frankdeluxe
"I want to speak. I want to turn my words into a wrecking ball and my writing into a weapon. I want to leave a trail of thought behind me so that even after I have died, I might be known and therefore live again. Most of all, I want to approach death face to face, and weave an embrace around it, surround it, and collapse it. I want to fight. Yet even as I try all of these things, that which I would make most intimate with me sidesteps and slips away. It is not mine to have, not mine to know. I realize that even as I sit here and pour out "my" ideas ("my very own"), so that perhaps a few people may bear witness, I am surrounded, preceded, and made subject to something utterly alien. I am faced with a horizon so deeply essential to my entire constitution as a human being that it overcomes all others. If I make a move towards understanding it, though, I am met with a blind spot. Its difference from life as I understand it, from life's moments of confusion and clarity, is so profound that no word assigned to it is strong enough to contain it. Death. I might scream this word a thousand times a night inside my head, but its meaning is empty. It withstands my desperate attempts to pull it out of itself and into my world; I know now that no philosophy will ever help me do this. I am ready to say to anyone willing to listen that my entire engagement with every thinker I have encountered, from Aristotle to...(ZiKEk a thinker! Cried Mona!)
, has been my way of trying to escape the absolute anguish I am going to feel for the rest of my lif.. P oor man stuckin the rest of his life! I am a prisoner of the event."the" event how undeleuzoguattarian, how indulgent in the pleasure of the IDea, and how wrong... Mona and Me say, roll around inthe grass, bud, its time to loosen your shackles... find a forgant guitar path.... And really the whole purpose of their work was to kick ass get whiners out of their "lifelong" "angoisse" really... Read breath, teeth. Tremble change.

I am a creature of the disaster. So are you."Excuse I will take a pass on that one, that grandiose angusih pose. Please, really.

Personally I am not a prisoner and me dont believe in tragic goating. but let it be. it'll do. as long one does not get too far into one's head. and leave the goats alone. wander along with the cattle. feel her ass. like th e tribune of her buttocks play. you. no self-indulgence. Incredible gentleman, part man a thousand tiny sexes. And more . as ass to wink. so cupboard to door. yer virtual ass here near this floor.

Is this the famous Bacon? O Dear! So Orange!

the only thing that rhymes with Orange
is Grange
and it's a 'false' rhyme. as it s local. idIoMatic. Idiolect patoiS selving. dig. daddio. In paris we held the translation next to our arm at an alarming rate ~ .