The sleeper, real and dear, is carved on the dark.
Minerals of sleep are travelling into him.
Travelling out of him.
Signal leps in his wrist.
Caught to me, caught to my nerve.
“
One must keep open the wound where he or she who enters into the analytic adventure is located — a wound that the professional establishment, along with the cynicism of the times and of institutions, will soon manage to close up.
“
Julia Kristeva | Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection