Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.44.0202050050160.9447-100000@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>,
"WRYTING-L : Writing and Theory across Disciplines" <WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA>
Subject: the true complaint
Date: Tue, 5 Feb 2002 00:50:32 -0500 (EST)
- the true complaint see our breasts. We want to touch everything. We want to mark mark, almost sexualized, as our bruised breasts would smash our bodies locked together. i will never rest or sleep again until i know THE TERRIBLE - THE TERRIBLE SECRET. this place has a terrible secret. it's an institution; the charred palm and wood matches igniting everything in the institution. I'd rather you fuck me until we drop, rather than reveal a single word of this not to ever have the slightest inkling of this, ever. Even if we fuck and our species imitates the dead. we are wanderers without hope of the All, but the prognosis - pro gnosis - was different. it was a dead end. i noticed there are an enormous number of potential diseases, some deadly. i want to be of the living with the dead. we left stones unturned, noted how we came to call each other black and blue. our skins around our fuck until we drop are reddened and almost dead as we write our quality text. Aw, who am I kidding? No one will skin us, alive or dead; we'll molder dead; our tales of terrible sex will die with us. THE TERRIBLE SECRET will die with us. We'd like to burn the institution to the ground. I'm keeping THE TERRIBLE SECRET. You know nothing's going to happen. _