We recompose ourselves upon a digitial landscape in the hope that writing might return, that the flood may overturn our seafaring vessel and deposit us upon a richer soil. A garden may take shape, or perhaps this will act solely as a monument for a failed attempt at recovering a body, trapping a voice which has already escaped our grasp. Our intellect constrains us and we wriggle as a fish caught in a net trawling the ocean floor. Should this writing give birth to a structure, any structure, then we should only be so pleased. At the very least, this will relieve congestion and allow for smoother flows across other grids. It should also be noted that this gesture evidences a particular form of exhibitionism and masochism, a desire to see ourselves ripped to shreds in the hope that we might examine these wounds and trace whence their flow emerges. This examination positions us both as doctor and pariah. We wander through the desert and it is here that we make our home.
"If a man lies with a woman during her monthly period and has sexual relations with her, he has exposed the source of her flow, and she has also uncovered it. Both of them must be cut off from their people." (Leviticus 20:18)
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