“I abandon myself to the fever of dreams, in search for new laws.” Artaud


night of april abandons party

"Near to her, one felt a shock for struggling spirit within the tree, the white birch thrust of her throat. A premonition that the spilled spirit in her skin will burst forth any second now. And where then will we be, with all that shed skin of the lampshade? 

What was said at parties where she was not? She had been vague, harried and sincerely woebegone that she must vaporize to the doppelganger taskmaster - a twitch upon the spinal strings, forbidding her to be too familiar with the human environment. "Where do you go, when you leave us?"

She went to ramble in her mind. The doors had begun swinging on their white plaster hinges, the drawers of stuffed papers and sins recorded discarded hidden, all these had come erupting. It is too responsible an organ, the brain. To couch all recorded happenings in the linear exacting of subconscious perspective…! How haphazardly it sat upon one’s shoulders - the crudeness in design.

Then the desperation of machines in their wailing strain against the dark. Friction - they make noises like the startled sleepy animals they are, which they must not be by the light of manufactured day. Rung the orgasmic ladder while outside the tree limbs nod in the night, spring hushed by its pinking cheek. “

She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.
written by Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf