Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.44.0207192243010.29901-100000@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: plague
Date: Fri, 19 Jul 2002 22:43:15 -0400 (EDT)
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. _