go and tell the king
that the sky is falling in
when it's not


my heroes had the heart

to lose their lives out on a limb
and all I remember
is thinking
I want to be like them


who is speaking in this way?

... it will always be impossible to know, for the good reason that all writing is itself this special voice, consisting of several indiscernible voices, and that literature is precisely the invention of this voice, to which we cannot assign a specific origin: literature is that neuter, that composite, that oblique, into which every subject escapes, the trap where all identity is lost, beginning with the very identity of the body that writes.