I am not innocent. Innocence is a science of the sublime. And I am only at the very beginning of the apprenticeship.

She alone dares and wishes to know from within, where she, the outcast, has never ceased to hear the resonance of fore language. She lets the other language speak - the language of 1,000 tongues which knows neither enclosure nor death. To life she refuses nothing. Her language does not contain, it carries; it does not hold back; it makes possible.

What happens: events interiors, snatch them from the cradle, from the source. I want to watch watching arrive. I want to watch arrivances. I want to find the root of needing to eat. And taste it: work of sweat / sleep.

Explore the idea of what the language that women speak would really be like if no one were there to correct them.

Writing is the passageway, the entrance, the exit, the dwelling place of the other in me.

Only when you are lost can love find itself in you without losing its way.

I am sick of death and worst of all this sickness feeds on itself, the more afraid I am the more I am afraid the more I flee the more I am afraid the more I am haunted.