The thing could fix things; only the ‘thing’ has the knowledge of the future. Even that of the present but it is strong enough not to care about our negative emotions. “I didn’t want to tell you, my dear!” Resonates the voice of the guardians who can communicate with the outside world, who can control others and who can make believe… There is an awful lot of make-believe in the truth which I inhabit. And somehow I want a lot less of it, not the lack of hope for the better days to come, but the kind of realism which would take away the stick of the guardians.

It’s the men whom you barely know who gets the right to manage you. Management means something entirely different than it should in the academic professional literature on it: it means a permanent right to find out about the location of a single woman, of somebody who could reflect, and driving toward her at all times. The roads in particular don’t belong to anyone: The more you complain, the more those who had the right to hear the complaints established yet another system of discipline. Lies took hold in place of everything, it turned into an impossibility to believe, in that which is good in men and women, in the better days to come and in the memory of all that was happy. 

The thing likes to take away happy memories, in particular. It has a thing for the past but essentially it’s against a happy mind: it makes you loose even the most essential cornerstones of your health. Mental health leads in the deconstruction process. The thing knows how to reconstruct on fear, because the thing did not allow for a clear and valid sense of the definition of the term in legal terms. The thing had been very free; to establish ‘the law’, to make do with the grains of reason that were in place and to obstruct anything that could have been better… The thing causes fear, the thing is dirty and the thing has taken in anything and anyone who stood beside it: those who kept claiming that nothing else would have been possible “in this country” were not actually trying to do anything better, for this infamous gum like phrase floating around the mouths of the siders.