Am I crass? Am I crude? Am I speaking out of my time? We don’t speak at all. We don’t speak of the things that are fire; we only joke of the absurd. Maybe, if only to make something true—to sigh and resign such matters as if it were once false.
Could this be the reason why? If this is a reason—why?
We don’t speak at all of the elemental, of the absurd. What we see is the truth. What we see is a disposable craft. Anything which we mould; whatsoever we believe.
