Everything is slipping through my hands. Even if I was not losing my grip, it would be impossible to seal off the cracks. I'm trying to preserve these writings in the sand, building barriers against wind and water. I'm trying to preserve this vessel, taking more care now that the vessel has begun to show more than just slight cracks. The cracks are widening, and the vessel is beginning to leak.

God does not sustain his/her children; she/he eats them. The children eat, only to become food for the God. It is not unlike the fattening of the lamb; sacrifice, or "one for all, and all for one." The "whole that is greater than the sum of its parts", the hermaphrodite, is the sacrificial body.

" The real body. To be real, it must be bodily; and to be a body is to be eaten. The humiliation in incarnation; to become bread. to be eaten: to be consumed by sorrow, sickness, and death." Love's Body. 169. There is no time other than sacrificial time; there is no becoming that is not simultaneously unbecoming; the cracks begin when the vessel begins taking form.

My name is Robert and I am addicted to everything. Addicts have to pay for what they get. I am addicted to everything that can be taken from me, like oxygen. Nothing is free. So here in this breathing I find capital. I am addicted to everything that allows me to remain myself, and for that one needs capital. If I do not pay my bill, the supply is cut off.

Suffering is loss; to lose something is to suffer. Everything in time is lost. To gain is pleasure; to lose is pain. This continuous finding and losing seems endless as experience, but there is this knowledge, this foreknowledge of an end. An end to beginnings and endings? But if there is no end then what is death? Is it capitalists all the way down?

What really is the use of complaining about the details. To whom is one complaining? The message of the post-modern human may be that no one is listening. " Life is not a problem to be solved, but an experience of reality."