R.D.Laing, The Bird of Paradise


There is really nothing more to say when we come back to that beginning of all beginnings that is nothing at all. Only when you begin to lose that Alpha and Omega do you want to start to talk and to write, and when there is no end to it, words, words, words. At best and most they are perhaps in memoriam, evocations, conjurations, incantations, emanations, shimmering, iridescent flares in the sky of darkness, a just still feasible tact, indiscretions, perhaps forgivable.

City lights at night, from the air, receding, like these words, atoms each containing its own world and every other world. Each a fuse to set you off…

If I could turn you on, if I could drive you out of your wretched mind, if I could tell you I would let you know

From R.D.Laing, The Bird of Paradise

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