”You are a Greek statue”
a blind woman whispered in my dreams.
“This muscular body is but a suit of mourning”
I told her. Then, I kissed her and
I had her against my clothes closet.

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Once I asked my parents for a dictionary. I wanted the boxed kind, navy with a magnifying glass. But Dad doesn't get gratification deferral in that way, so instead I got the kind with two volumes, six columns inside. According to it, desire is both a longing and an absence. It's sexual. And desiree is a kind of potato, pink-skinned with yellow waxy flesh.
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I'm convinced that you cannot describe nature, not philosophically, nor in a scientific manner and, not in the last place, not from an aesthetic point of view either. The moment you start describing it, studying or painting it, nature is undone and becomes something different altogether: a dissertation, a story, or an art work, anything that fits into a human framework of understanding. It's a Bermuda triangle of philosophy, science and culture in which nature disappears.
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The subject is distinguished from the non-subject by the minimum of freedom to be itself, i.e. it has the freedom to defend its self in view of real unfreedom. A human being cannot be reduced to its status as mere object. It knows, as Carl Schmitt says, "not only birth," the facticity of its having been cast, "but also the possibility of a rebirth," which, as Hölderlin says in The Course of Life, is "the freedom to set out whither he will".[1] There is therefore only one obligation for the human subject: to be free in view of its freedom.
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