No! GEt it out! Who's chasing me? Bats? Communists? Not me... that's all I know. Or do they know it too? Get it away I say! I'm not like that! I'm not one of you I tell you. I'm me I say, I'm not one of you, no I'm not the palpitation the earth shows when the wind stirs the grass like spices. Me is not that. Can never be you. I'm a manly men and men don't do . . . And I don't piss all over myself or play in the dirt. I am a body and that's it. Good solid objective reality. Flows disgust me: the rush of communist fervor, tsunami of feeling that music floods the bodily harbors with, tears like a long rope stretched taut across time. I am me because these flows these other things are not me, separate me. I am THE individual. I will not be penetrated. I exclude to remain whole. I am a fragment in order to think myself the totality of the careening cosmos.
Heterological/Homological Metaphysics of Presence Schizophrenia