Archive of Our Own

Bio

At the end of time prior to the coming through of morning. At the end of time prior to the morning, my catatonia. I'll no longer speak because you are not hearing and will never hear me no matter how I speak. So I am a mass of dreams desires which, since I can no longer express them, are foetuses beyond their times, not even abortions. For I can't get rid of un-born-able unbearable dreams, whereas women can get rid of unwanted children. So I no longer know what I'm doing. I wanted to find a meaning or myth or language that was mine, rather than those which try to control me; but language is communal and here is no community. I speak within my own self in some messed-up language which isn't quite language. At the end of the night when mourning's about to begin. When morning's about to begin, I don't know any country I don't know any community I don't know which of my memories to trust I don't know what memories to believe. Is there any history? Is there anything, here, but boredom? All singing must now be howling.