Non-Cosmos

The non-cosmos. The non-ontological. That's what W. sees in my damp, in my rats, the Japanese knot-weed, growing in the yard. That's what he sees in everything I have written and will write. In everything I have said or have tried to say. He hears it in my stuttering. My stammering. In the ‘hellos!’ I boom out to all-comers. And isn't it present in my dancing, too? In my stomach problems? In my ceaseless consumption of celebrity magazines?

Non-thought. Chaos. It's what he hears when I use to the middle voice, W. says. There was a dampening. There was a infestation of rats. There was a proliferation of knotweed. There was and will be writing. There was and will be the desecration of speech.

Faecal emergencies come, one after another. There will be a spattering of toilet bowls. The gods, blind and deaf and mad are screaming. The angels are weeping. The sky is darkening, W. says. The desert is growing. He can smell sulphur, W. says. He can see black wings.

Kurtz is heading upriver... Robespierre is sharpening the guillotines... Lenin is ordering more Kulaks killed... Danton dies again...

Pallasch. Pallasch, Pallasch.