There’s no lack of void.
Not my line but Samuel Beckett’s. I stole it like so many lines. I have done a hundred lines in alcohol drenched toilets. I have often thought about truth and London streets like silences between words, cars, and cigarettes.
With every step I flushed truth down the toilet.
The toilet in The French House where I saw the residue of Georges Bataille’s face. He said, ‘You perhaps know that desire reduces us to pulp.’