There are certain things we take that help us to murder sleep, that appalling privilege. You know what I mean, those silent golden landscapes, those gardens and cancers and hollyhocks. Its sickening. Our shadows live there, would slaughter us if they could. But instead they are trying to speak to us. Like, for instance, there is a sky inside the earth. There is no light but everything there is visible. No-one can visit, and no-one can leave. But those who are held there, they are manufacturing the noises that will shatter all of our dreams. Think inside those noises. Think inside them, become nothing else. The fist in the fascist’s face must always be wide awake.
very vaguely after Georg Trakl's "Der Schlaf"
title from Diamanda Galás
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