The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

July 19, 2002


plague


toeonehasecontrolem,ethntalephexistebereforeonlusiventegroupseofencen -
You say, "You are dying, of existence." You say, "You are dying ... of
existence." You say, "You are dying, of existence." I see no "existence"
here. You don't exist. You're not there. You never have been there. People
can't have never existed. You never will exist. You're not even nothing.
You haven't ever existence. You don't even exist. You're not here at all.
You've never been the slightest. You don't exist in any way, shape, or
form. You're never Alan. You, Alan, are there. You, Alan, have been there.
You, Alan, have existed. You, Alan, will exist. You, Alan, are Alan, are
even absent. You, Alan, do exist always and forever. You, Alan, are the
certainty of your existence. You, Alan, do even exist. You, Alan, are the
universe. Existences are an illness. Existence is an illness. You, Alan,
don't want existence. You want nothing to do with existence. It sickens
you. Your writing has nothing to do with it. Sickness has nothing to do
with it. Of illness, let it be said: it sickens you, Alan. You don't want
illness to exist. You don't want existence. This is your sickness. This is
your illness. You are sick of existence. You don't want to be annihilated.
You don't want existence. You want nothing to do with existence. Perhaps,
Alan, you exist. It sickens you.
A love and legs
nightmare!
A love and legs
nightmare!
For days we are written on rocks.


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