Dina and Dan Offer Excuses For Wanting

It comes now from a lack of willingness, to speak of my condition. But I'm writing, in the spheres of human experience, the one involved in the strictest gesture, the picking up of a phrase, whispered through a crack in the wall, picking it up as if it were a crumb on my shirtfront

That's also because what's forcing me to write is responsible for my physical limitations. If you want to see your family again, they say.

I suspect they're watching me, indeed, so plainly placed are the cameras and the two way mirrors, that the commonest man, least familiar with such circumstances, would be cognizant of the fact of his being over-watched. I think all knowledge of who I am comes from my experience of being who I am under surveillance.  

The doors of this room open up only on Sundays. I know that it's a Sunday because that's when they open. I've been handed a few books to study on these occasions. One was about yoga, which I practice regularly. Another about the benefits of a vegan diet, though I am not certain the food I am served is strictly vegan. Among the listed ingredients of the dishes I am frequently served the one I most often encounter is the critique of pure reason; it's indeterminate.

Where you stand now, somewhere else, it is never going to get easy. He says to her.

I write this for the purposes of introducing tension into the plot. These two are exiles

They are getting up in the morning in different places. Whether or not I could have such a condition.

However, I don’t bother getting around to the fact that it must be what it isn’t.

In other words, it is plainly the other way around. But all that means is I do a lot of other things beside, among other nuisance, or immediate objects, though I respect the possibility that saying as much isn’t quite the same as saying I remain in detention

I do, I do, I do.

Otherwise exercise my cognition in the contemplation of the objects that affect my senses.

One of these days, there will be a cause without an effect, or a change without a cause. I'm sure I'll take your hand and christen our boat with a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne, and leave the room when I fart, out of politeness, two minutes passing before we’re able to convince ourselves it’s time to go back whence the thought annihilates itself in stupendous comprehension  

But with newness that disappoints a sense of oldness—to what mountain do we go certain of the fact that we will reach it before others unlike us take the path over and through various machinations deter or outright inhibit our progress? If all the rules upon which our certainty depends are empirical then they are necessarily fortuitous

Will you walk to see it, your condition?  

Solemnly in such daylight the clocks progress

And new springs the dirge waiting in a crumpled horn… this is very much new

In fact is turned into sprigs

Thrown by the armful on caskets

For police gunned down, in fact

Under your bed, you've buried them

While outside, clouds piled up, and they would not, of course

Be able to rain, though that is what the mind wants of itself

A disgrace too

That will in no way ruin the parade