...a literature ordered according to the infinite task of extracting from the depths of oneself, in between the words, a truth which the very form of the confession holds out like a shimmering mirage (Michel Foucault)
J: I don’t know. Maybe it just takes belief for a lie to become truth. I believed, and now my life with D is the truth of what I believed. D became what I wanted. I built my own prison.
