Greetings. Friends. This does not say everything. The book has not disappeared. We call upon you all. Anyone. Romantic. Didactic. Noted-experts. So-called Dilettantes. So-called Militants. Creatures. Etc. Propose! The need for a stage set. A bare arena. Surrounded. By the public. Turns this public itself. Into the theatre’s setting. Voluptuous thought. Velvet. Shadow. Silence. Calling you! We are calling you! If you miss this opportunity. There will never be another! Your place is with us! All welcome! Anyone who wants to be an artist. Step forward! A place for everyone. Anyone! If you decide to join us. We congratulate you. Here and now! But hurry. Be sure not to miss the deadline! We shut down at midnight. Never to reopen! Accursed be anyone who does not believe us! Backdrop. Place. Text. Stage. Director. Actors. Decor. Costumes. Public. The required elements. Now. How to read? How to write? We could use the word witness. Martyr. These terms. These conditions. Are critical. Demonstrator demonstrating. Behold. T. asks. What can even be read? Rhapsody. A form of Research. Polemical exercises against the academic. Parliamentary. ‘Anti-totalitarian’ right. Our so-called democracies. Or. And. Our Research. Placed in common. Writing. In a world without spirit. No. A book for. Perhaps. Why as much as how we write. Free spirits. In committee. How to speak about it. Mud. Hair. Monumentum aere perennius. Made. What difference is made. Is being made. Bombarded. In bronze. You. The official Fantasy. Who wrote this. Unlikely truth. And how could you. Constitute this. Its writing? Characterize its possibility? The idea of group. At school. Play. Community. Yes. Yes. I know. A dissensual practice. Etc. Some sort of a communism. Perhaps. Etc. Yes. Silence is necessary. For writing. And reading. Perhaps. You. Equal in free association. Political. Its event. Material and collective. Interior monologue. A collective multiplicity. Lost in. Herself. The Truth does not exist. The voice recognizes itself. Only truths. The mud is already colour. The plural is crucial. The irreducible multiplicity of truths. Thus. In declaration. Bear witness. Organized. Exercising. In praise of poetry. The body that pricks the floor. A handbook. A manual. Pamphleteer. Purpose being. Truly vertiginous. Insubordination. Bring a bottle. Or not. Something to nibble. And your thoughts. The theatre must think up its own. The bastard son of polis and eros. Parrhesia. In the name of the experience THEY have. Of being. In truth. And yet. Every name in history is I. But not in mine. In that long descent into hell. A descent in which one sets off in search of a truth. What type of reader would you like to meet. To tell the truth. Je est un autre. A King Billy T-bone steak. With onion rings and mushrooms. 16.90 Euros. Imagine! Heads. Narrators of the space. Inherently open! Evoking figures. Gestures. Objects. Sensations. Histories. Enough. From self. Picture this. The writer’s body. So-called-writer. Camera. Hand held. Pans left to right. Voice. Low. Distinct. Remote. Little colour. Absolutely steady rhythm. Slightly slower than normal. Everything to be seen. Everything to be said. Obscenity. Demands for. A solidarity that quickly turn to. Demands for. Groupthink. So-called. Or not. The friendship of the no. Yes! Yes! The weakness of. Our? Movement was. Is. Its force. A fragility. Drawing. The perfect example of an intensity of weakness. In drawing. The ‘together’ is only the together of some vanishing marks. ‘Together is enough.’ For these reasons. We may. Perhaps. Speak of a politics of drawing. On the table a tape-recorder with microphone and a small number of cardboard boxes containing reels of recorded tapes. The poem demands. In its own words. An operation of silence. We are in search. True-writer. Cannot find words. So seeks them. That which exercises such a dangerous fascination. Such a spine-tingling and blissful infinity. Night. Insatiable and sweet craving for the secrets of night and death. When all have taken their place. After a complete silence. A voice is heard. In the extreme background from a vaulted niche. As if from a tomb. Yes. I am Guadet. Executioner. Do your duty. Go take my head to the tyrants of my country. It has always turned them pale. Once severed. It will turn them paler. No surrender! No surrender! The heckles rise. The public reserves. The right to demand. Purchase. Assemble. Vast human incomprehension. A thought sung. Understood. By the singer. Perhaps. The invitation to listen. Interrupting by necessity. No. Consensus. Criminal democracy! Harlequin. Shopping Mall. They. Nothing beside remains. Round the decay. We. Are The People! Collaborators and resistance. Conspiracy! To breathe together. Enough. And still. Yet. With no compassion. O! Hatred. All-too. One of those great occasions when truth. Through the bloodshed. Costs. Becoming so weighty that its expression. In endless task. More demands! The very forms of theatrical amplification. Revolution! Executed! Writing! Die Wunde! So to speak. The entelechy. Entelekheia. En- ‘within’ + telos ‘end. Perfection’ + ekhein ‘be in a certain state.’ A realization or actuality. As opposed to. A potentiality. The revolutionary legend. Striking fear into. Your. Heart. And imposes upon you. A citizen’s sacrament of bloodshed. Reading. Judged. Essential to you. A prisoner. A rehabilitation. What does the poem think? Act 3. Scene 1. Music. Youtube. On her ipad. Can be made out. A castle garden. At one side a tall castle building. At the other a low parapet with a look-out post. Upstage the castle gate. The location can be seen as being a rock height. Through openings the sea and the distant horizon can be seen. The whole scene conveys an impression of being deserted. Ill-tended. Here and there in poor repair and overgrown. Downstage. Inside the wall. T. Lying in the shade of a tall lime-tree. Asleep on a couch. Laid out as if lifeless. His head. K. Sits. Bent over him in anguish and carefully listening to his breathing. As the curtain goes up there can be heard from outside the gate a shepherd playing a sad yearning tune on a reed-pipe. At length the shepherd appears over the parapet and looks in with sympathetic interest. Shepherd boy. Hey! Everybody sing. Hey! Better act quick. Hey! Be my toy. Hey! Come on have a bet. Hey! So I can win. Hey! This is not a poem. Hey! For the bin. Hey! I don’t have a jack knife. Hey! It went up the hill. Hey! I don’t know if I’ll get it back. Hey! By hook or crook I will. Hey! English Chelsea fan. Hey! This is your last game. Hey! We’re not Galatasary. Hey! We’re Sparta FC. Sparta!