fuck an A man, CIA man. fucking tears, bastards from redemption, freedom always just around the corner: when will acceptance acknowledge death? this ache of disagreeability, presence. how shall I inform the prison guards I could have escaped 1000 times already? but for my desire not to humiliate them, I remain their prisoner, indefinitely. Stiller, in all his amnesiac glory, was never really Stiller; We, from America, have never really been ourselves, confused, perhaps, as to who should be in prison… and for what, no less. God damn tears, delaying chores: had I the freedom of Amnesia, Oh Stiller, why would you ever set foot back in this Wohlstand’s prison? Was it because you didn’t know how to be free? is that My un-confessed secret as well? Burn in Hell, Dear Herr Stiller! your sin is indecision, disaffection: you didn’t shoot that fucking fascist, but still you made your confession anecdotally! Better to be beaten in the street, penniless and alone, than fail to kill a lousy fascist. Beaten a thousand times! I cry for you, you sad sad man, I am ashamed of you. you are my bastard tears, dripping.
screaming at low volumes
