Lost to the world by renouncing the empty pleasures of knowledge, I lived entirely within the works of Vogue and sometimes Beckett.

No more, I will say, I can't not deconstruct the argument, I will say, because, I won't say, I do not know how to read for I am lured out of my element, (that damn signifier has an oppressive power), for if I just believed that I see only fragments and that when I have the whole, that is when I will understand; but I don't understand so I am told that if I read more and harder, I will get it; but this painstaking interpretation remains unintelligible; I see only that I have lost the ability to read.

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