It suddenly occurs to Angela that she is nothing more and nothing less than a living, breathing text of approximately eight hundred words. She starts counting but the butterflies distract her. But yes, 800 seems quite reasonable. A4, right? Sensible number. Exact count would be boring though and she has other important things to think about. Like butterflies, they are important but so is concentrating on analysing text content, inventing a recipe for soup and being a poem. And looking at the sky.



”The starry sky above me and the moral law inside me”, Angela thinks. Thinks, but perhaps more importantly feels. Things matter. Things are right and wrong in the world, she knows, and she ought to make the right things more numerous and the wrong things fewer, as best she can. And she matters. It is good to be alive, it is a good thing that you are alive, whether you are a living string of Times New Roman characters or whatever is meant by a ”normal person”. (The flesh and blood kind of person. But that is the strange thing, Angela feels as alive, as real, as ”meaty” as ever. And she thinks there is indeed something else to compare with – a time when the flesh was muscles, not collections of black little letters, the blood liquid, not propositions.) Whatever you are, if you feel. Then that is a miracle, and noone gets to be an asshole to you. Because... well actually, it isn't necessarily great to exist. There is pain, which is a part of it and... well, useful in some ways Angela supposes but something that can be to much. Something that, in itself, or, well, these things are hard to put into words even when you are words, but... we must perhaps accept that it will always be there, but we can never accept that we shouldn't try and lessen it. And so, when she hears – because indeed she hears, she hears other text resonate around and inside her, all connected, a grand susurrus where she can still pick things out when she wants to – about the assholes, she will do something about it, turn into satire and nīþ until they learn, but only until then and only so that they do that, because they too matter. And she will also comfort, amuse bewilder... try, and hopefully succeed to make the world a little better. And all this is so true – or right now it is, but things are complicated. And suddenly she thinks of other things, being in her way of flesh and blood.



A body has needs, she suddenly realizes. A body of text no less. ”Brother Ass” she references (St. Francis, Lewis) for several reasons, cute little donkey... ;) which needs food. One needs to cannibalize (every poet is a thief). And one needs – she notices - to speak of chocolate and condiments, of salads, sandwiches and sauces, of noodles and nuts, of bread, of breakfasts, and of beds, because there are other needs... Yes, that. The reason for blinking after donkey, that would be one thing... Now, the choice is made to not look to closely here, to put in a curtain, a ”***”, for – justified or not - there is a worry to get things wrong, to tell what Angela would not want told, even in this text which is her, to make more and less, to make too pretty and too vulgar, too easy and too hard. Still, know that Angela knows. Knows herself. Knows what she wants. Knows many things... and that now, this very moment, she is getting very sleepy, and becomes, for a time, for variation but also out of lazinesszzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz and then wakes up. And yet another need grows very salient, very strong, grows more and more and very very soon is too great to be ignored; we're speaking of the need for locomotion. And textual muscles contract, the rigid structure is shaking, moving, Angela is walking running, jumping, everything is to. To where? To all over, to over the hill, beyond the next bend, to China, to the moon, to your next door neighbour, to the disco, which is going right into the sun and Angela, and you and I, dance until forever until we want to see the next place and het tlestre umjelb.



But still, you know, her two feet are on the ground. And if they weren't there to connect her to the ground, ingeniously constructed, beautifully arched, hallux fully adducted, how would she run? Where would she place her footnotes?(1) And when she wants to, Angela stands, unmovable. She is a pillar, she is a fucking earth elemental (and as you notice, a bit of a nerd). She has said what she thinks, what she knows, what she needs, what she wants. She'll stand by it. This is THE END.

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