The words were already here waiting for me, like my mother and father and sister. I do not think I knew the words before I came here, as I did not know those others. I came to know words as I came to know first the breast and then my mother; words came with these objects. The words that awaited me were written words, though spoken through the mouths of those others, they existed in a space outside them, and in a sense, the others were immersed in the words.

It is impossible for me to separate myself in relation to others from the artifice of words that we are all plugged into. But then there is the dream which dissolves the words into plastic symbolic images. Where do the words come from if not the dream? Where does the genital organization come from if not polymorphous perversity?

A book is a universe of words; a time/space continuum. A story or a history is composed of all those words existing between the front and back covers of a book, and there is no book without covers. The reading/writing may go on for a very long time, but finally the repressed returns. What returns is the unconscious process which is hidden between the covers of a book.