They Could Read Him, They

The Diseased, Anyway, Are More Interesting Than The Healthy. The Words Of The Diseased, Even Those Who Can Manage Only A Murmur, Carry More Weight Than Those Of The Healthy. Then, Too, All Healthy People Will In The Future Know Disease. That Sense Of Time, Ah, The Diseased Man’s Sense Of Time, What Treasure Hidden In A Desert Cave. Then, Too The Diseased Truly Bite, Whereas The Healthy Pretend To Bite But Really Only Snap At The Air. Then, Too, Then, Too, Then, Too.

Even On The Poorest Streets People Could Be Heard Laughing. Some Of These Streets Were Completely Dark, Like Black Holes, And The Laughter That Came From Who Knows Where Was The Only Sign, The Only Beacon That Kept Residents And Strangers From Getting Lost.

What Twisted People We Are. How Simple We Seem, Or At Least Pretend To Be In Front Of Others, And How Twisted We Are Deep Down. How Paltry We Are And How Spectacularly We Contort Ourselves Before Our Own Eyes, And The Eyes Of Others...and All For What? To Hide What? To Make People Believe What?

For Her, Reading Was Directly Linked To Pleasure, Not To Knowledge Or Enigmas Or Constructions Or Verbal Labyrinths.

Literature + Illness = Illness