...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)
K: Wow. I can’t imagine. My space is empty. A is never there. When we are together, we feel lost in the expanse which is so obviously swallowing us whole. Noah is the only place we find any footing.
