The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


I am a sick man. I am a vile man. I think about death too much. I harbor
death. Here is a nonexistent image of the harboring of death:

That won't do. That will never do. Death has a motion. Death has a motion
_from the other side._ Here is a nonexistent film of the motion of death:

That's insufficient. That's never enough. Death is the refutation of all.
Death terminates infinitude. Here is death's nonexistent refutation of the
paradoxes of mathematics:

That can't count enough. That's never enough. Death devours data-base and
protocol. Here is a nonexistent indexing of death's world and universe:

Death counters me. Death encounters me. Death stymies, subverts. I dream
death's dream. Here is a nonexistent presentation of death's dreaming:

Death's dreaming which is never enough. Death motivates me. I succumb to 
death's motivation. I am swallowed by death. Death gives me a choice which is 
no choice at all. Here is a nonexistent program of death's stricture, of 
death's interface, of my collapse of death:

Death muddles me. Death confuses me. Death take me. Death hold me. Here is
a nonexistent program of death's holding and taking:

It's too confusing. Death rushes me, annihilates me. I will death's 
annihilation. Yet does death listen. Nor does death listen. Here is a 
nonexistent configuration of death's silence:

It's too noisy. Death crushes me, lacerates me. Death has no bell, no drum, no 
whistle. Death writes this. Here is a nonexistent file of death's grip, death's 
claw, death's blood, death's bone, my grip, my claw, my blood, my bone:

It's too absent. It begs presence from death. It begs a missive. Here is the 
nonexistent missive:

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