i think one's life is in fact resistance to life. what i mean is resistance to its fragility, to its failure. in common terms, to poverty, to intertia as sheer existence, to this unwillingness to step out of what suffices or forgetting it in excess of things which efface that memory. everything self-destructs. i am not sure whether it is an instict of self-preservation or desire for suicide that forces one to transform deadly declensions into generative interrogations.