Who is the Celestial Bandit that so flagrantly challenges my endless creative flow and its obstinate refutation of all forms of closure?
Who - but the spy of my causality - would go out of its way to attach my own subjectivity, the one I continually brand by reconfiguring my flux identity at the drop of a hat, to the rigors of a finitude so devastatingly unreal in its willingness to derail my sense of hope and boundless futurity, that it presents itself to me as a secret advisor who reminds me that a throw of the dice never abolishes chance?
Who, I ask, is the Mysterious Narrator that invites me to disseminate all of my performative transgressions so that I can experience My Own Private Utopia and proceed through life as an emboldened scripteur whose poetic moanings unconsciously launch a programmatic illogic of sense?
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