Lacan says to "Eat your existence, mange ton dasein."
There's no field of sense that can be quilted.
(I don't really know what that's supposed to mean.)
We are here, that is, to protect each other.
Attaining a semblance of consistency within the archetypal neurosis.
(I don't know what that's supposed to mean, either.)
The seventh line wants to talk about suffering again.
The eighth line declines the invitation gently but firmly.
The ninth usually knows the way out of here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem