I'm left behind to violate only unoccupied space, to create grotesque modalities for externalizing and afflicting upon the world the schematic constructs of some of my more disturbing dreams.
Contrapuntal breathing techniques take shape in my proximity; the energy, unhindered, of catastrophe botany, manœuvres from monochromatic to dichromatic and superimposes itself upon a landscape of blank faces rapidly speaking without tongues, from orifices that don't exist.
I masculinize the heart of Jeanne d'Arc, before swallowing it to replace my own... I desired so much to lead an army of bohemian dreamers straight to the grave. Jeanne said that I'm a fucked up émigré in my own place of birth; that I am all that is alien to me... but my xenophobia only contours and shades the finer details of my self-persecution and an ahistoric sense of guilt.
I'm afraid of the destination, terrified of human multiplicities, and I'm staggeringly inept at self-persecution, so I turn my quasi-feminist gaze upon those surrounding me, and offer up annihilation of the Psyché, obsessive cauterizing of severed appendages, detached phallic symbols of Œdipal repression and regression, Story of the Eye children's colouring books, all at a discount rate.
I grasp a confused irony, labelled detached analysis, and abandon "mauve" sensibilities that often led me to a duplicitous variation on objectivity; difference theory glaciates my left frontal lobe; I plead for seizures and accept the gentler oblivion of a hangover, the quasi-mythical tranversal awareness vibrates only me, or so my fierce desire for a unique ubiquity insists... was Jeanne d'Arc as paradoxically proto-imagistic and violently gentle as me? did she shatter the vessels holding an exiled primacy of ghosts just like me? did she paint the post-future-pictorial death scene of this lost boy, as I have painted the pre-past-pictorial death scene of her own beloved Gilles?
Did she meet me in Warsaw, at the Kraków Gate, and offer a proverbial explanation for...?