Along with the lazy man... the dying man is the immoral man: the former, a subject that does not work; the latter, an object that no longer even makes itself available to be worked on by others.

Places are fragmentary and inward-turning histories, pasts that others are not allowed to read, accumulated times that can be unfolded but like stories held in reserve, remaining in an enigmatic state, symbolizations encysted in the pain or pleasure of he body. 'I feel good here': the well-being under-expressed in the language it appears in like a fleeting glimmer is a spatial practice.

Everyday life invents itself by poaching in countless ways on the property of others.

The only freedom supposed to be left to the masses is that of grazing on the ration of simulacra the system distributes to each individual.

As a first approximation, I define belief not as the object of believing (a dogma, a program, etc.) but as the subject's investment in a proposition, the act of saying it and considering it as true.

A memory is only a Prince Charming who stays just long enough to awaken the Sleeping Beauties of our wordless stories.

An absence of meaning opens a gap in time.