Identity becomes a limit.
Freedom exists beyond narrative: to understand why the illusion fades.
Poetry doesn’t exist.
Questions end illusions. One must interrogate the foundation of identity. The weight of an anchor breeds uniformity. Language has to be cut raw.
Formations in time take place. This is the process of a disintegrating narrative. This is the dislocation of time. Raised in a particular ideology within an ocean, the continuum is the literature.