Through

faithful repetition 

one seeks to find a way out of 

The disorienting miasma of the everyday- personal and political- 

while acknowledging 

that no such exit route may ever yield. 

Never mind: exhaustion, anxiety,

Shame: our balls of yarn, gifts from Ariadne, 

to unspool and to get on with the Minotaur slaying, clock's running, chop-chop, and to follow the thread back to her, 

escape Crete, and make love in the distant dark.

At last. 

In tears. The true measure of absolution: the permission

to grieve. 

As you kiss her shins- if she lets you- permets-toi de te 

DÉSINTÉGRER.