<p>To the nursemaid who has loosened knots, burned through blocked passageways; musicated the very milk of my organs. What old rot having died off completely can come back dressed in sumptuous disguise? My very dangerous limb, where the soul cuts clean the mind sticks; there in its quilt of checks and balances, its illusions—imagining the imaginary—my limb awakening, like a phantom. </p><p>Shelter the symptom, always maintain the jouissance of anxiety! I was a disciple of dead thinking, endlessly icing the wound.</p><p>The imaginary—she is constantly sewing back and forth, tumbling over lines of motion in reverse, building thick ridges; she is always in exultant, intimate revolt. She is the subject-in-process/on trial, stirring, sweating, singing; giver of a new gift, of parousia, love as a non-reciprocal, disequi-librium. If I clear her the room, she will provide nourishment that is never fixed, a line that will run through the body fashion-ing a lightscape, source becoming source, low and sweet, floral, rapturous.</p><p>What was my internal necessity? The bone in my throat. Candy bone, glitter bone, gutter bone, gun bone, gore bone. My geometry, my reservoir, my mote, my drinking straw, my lonely round.</p>*Material in italics is taken from selected writings of Julia Kristeva.
