Issue 69, Spring 1977
Our road’s no wider than yours. We often fall from the height. We’re broken too, but our lack of attention doesn’t force us to climb the rope again. Your slightest mistake can kill you. Our thousand mistakes amuse death, that spectator with the best seat in our circus of pain.
Let’s be like them: let’s never fall without dying. Such a crowd around our plunge. But a child, standing a bit apart, looks at the empty rope with the night behind, intact.