We who cannot fuck

September 19, 2011 § Leave a comment

She: Intentional acts of harm, aggression that knows & achieves its end, are as rare as those born of love.

He: The stuff of our days & years that accumulate, expand, and collapse into life & death, the seconds that conceive minutes that conserve moments that consume memory, are that of accidents, nearly all, of harm & of love.

She: The contradiction that riddles our intentions is striking. In love, we desire everything, warts & all, which is more than anyone dare offer, even of themselves. Even hate is sustained by its undoing: when the enemy without is the neighbor within, there is always someone else to execute. The cruel efficiency of intention, the desire to have &/or eliminate, demands its impotence.

He: Accidental harm & love are not unlike time. We can look back & ahead only so far or so wide. Pleading anything more, successfully or not, is pretense.

She: Uncertain accidents, then, though inefficient, these acts of love & hate. They have been woven into the everyday of our common sense. This is simply what one must or must not do these days, dear. That’s how it is, son. Etc. We who cannot fuck are left only with fucking up.

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