the idiotic poverty of pain

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the idiotic poverty of pain

because there's so little to say about pain, you're always thumping up against that, a sort off surface which gives way, but only within a limited compliance, after a while one wants to slither, one wants to move, to move, into projections of images or fantasies, or holographic universes on the edges of the surface, you can consider the surface in the same way as you can consider the bangu, the drum, as you can consider the surface as the surface of pain, with the center where the harshness occurs, and then reading the skin, reading the skin on the outside of the drum, and then leaving the drum altogether and go elsewhere, the sound that goes elsewhere, so, moving from there, after a while, pain then reveals itself, as does death, as an ultimate poverty, idiotic, nothing left but null signifiers always already collapsed, because everything becomes the same token, everything becomes the same dissolution or decay of the proton, so what is left is not even substance, one moves away then to embrace, or catch or catapult oneself, or corral, the image or imaginary that appears on the outside of the curvature of the drum, it's there that sound meanders into form, embraces the subject, brings hir back alive

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