Thus the original escapes between the signifiers of a discourse which is not your discourse but a trompe l’oeuil. Tu m’as trompé l’oeuil. Sauve quipu.
Qui parle? Socrates is the one who speaks, unpaid for selling truth beauty and goodness wrapped up in dialectic as objects of exchange for a good argument, Plato his microphone, his reverential reference. In any case students don’t read. Soon all these innumerable voices will be as transitory as those of the transistor twiddled along from the transatlantic disc-jockey to the news in Serbo-Croat. For the record does not tolerate the re-presentation of a subject in its text, the I who says I not being the said I so that the recipient of the twenty-seven coloured veils is left frantically signalling into the wings of a love where nobody gets the message, like a pompous pirate who would not stay for a dancer through hoops and loops riding roughshod eye-hooded over unbeing for if mimesis exists non-being is. Look it up.
It follows therefore that if Larissa invents Armel inventing Larissa, Armel also invents Larissa inventing Armel. Thus there can be no communication between them and it is pointless or at least stylus-cramping to mime a dialogue of the deaf, an epistolary of the stolen I through purloined letters full of girded loins girdled with new leaves turned into fig-years of speech summarised in the minutes of their meetings where their mutual demand cannot reach its end let them call ulteriorly out of the anterior wilderness with mouthsful of locusts and white lies that eliminate Larissa right out of her own icon I-conned by his eyes until all that is signifiable in her is struck with latency as soon as raised to the function of the signifier which initiates this raising by its original disappearance, so that any discussion about whether to return to Armel (or to Larissa) as subject of discourse drifts into the undeicidable and she drives off again into the night watching the dancing hoops of taleological propositions split against one another inside the rectangle that reflects the rear a head, into which she enters as into a vehicle within a vehicle, twiddling along the transistor for other ideologies into which she enters as into a turntable broken into and broken up by a goldicondeology of golden youth for whom it is more difficult to enter the I of society than for the treasurer of signifiers to enter the paradiso terrestre as changed upon the blue guitar.
Evasiveness is the privilege of woman but woman has lost all her privileges by emancipation while gaining none of man’s, only his responsibilities. And when man reverses roles to steal both the irresponsibilities and the privileges of woman adding them to his own while leaving her only the responsibility for everything he has nothing to do but find another vehicle to get into, another hole an O an open vowel who will nevertheless become consonantal with his inarticulate seed and bring forth a concatenation of consequences with the non-privilege of non-evasiveness. All privilege must therefore be abolished and we demand a complete reorganisation of visceral organs. La demande however ne peut aboutir and the staff knows this and goes on exactly as previously falling back into the old ruts which must be analysed as global social phenomena. A long discussion then opens on a two-pointed prong:
A. Integration of a horizontal coordination into the proepigram (principle unanimously adopted: not to follow the principle).
B. The number of groups thus desegmented to be actualised in the fall from the paradiso terrestre (Larissa Toren is opposed to all horizontal coordination which would degenerate, according to her, into useless chatter).
Since, however, even a dead idyll is a mise-en-abîme and since every chasm opens into another chasm into which it is possible to fall as into a void, the intelligence nailed in pain as it sees through the acting out of its own lunatic trajectory, so every idyll dead alive or half dead opens out into another idyll, the idyll of Armel and Larissa, of Ali Nourennin and Saroja Chaitwantee Paolo and Francesca Lancelot and Guinevere Tristan and Iseult the potion and the holy grail the pen and the paper full of invariants such as the institution of learning rusticated into a bucolic carnival past-pralised by the presence of fixed motifs such as the equivocal use of exhorticultural terms for sexual ends and the display of vicious organs overflowing from the excess of hominivorous anguish. Larissa however has had most vicious organs removed, dropping a vessel here there and in the other place which explains her non-existence and consonantal compensation, piecemeal metonymised, parceled out, fragmented into synthetic synechdoche that organises a chiasmus in a forgotten name to create the rejection that she proinjects. Yours are the poems i do not write. In some languages things do themselves even when le ça ne se fait pas.
But if you come too close to any icon vero or non vero you will see only the texture and the knife-strokes not the goddess curtained in black hair with a small phallus-man where the phallus by the psychological sell should be, wrapped up in swaddling clothes bandages or winding sheets. If however you distance yourself from that particular myth you see merely an oval with a blob off-centre which owing to an archaic flaw in the intensity of the illusion splits into dancing hoops that rise and fall into one another as if juggled by an invisible magician or a black recumbent grave into which two men leap to double death by dripping dagger plunged through a crown of thorns a golden O of all the world a stage which is the other scene. Let the phallos perceive its aim. Within each texture is another texture within each myth another myth each signifier signifying another each problem a preamble to a promble.
Unless it is all the time, Oscar. The naked emperor of I-scream. Or the young man carbuncular whose concubines stereotype his index with names and numbers that he may reach his doctorate of indoctrination deliveried in ideology from top to toe a footman of the bourgeoisie.
There are plenty of subjects to play with Oliver Claire Hubert Olaf Chou Gregory Stanley Catherine reformulating the poetics of the Renaissance in the poetry of the cry the representation always double and in any case unequal, in some respects less than life in others more than plenary Oscar for example more empirical and imperial than any empirical imperialist his lanky henchman more wenching and lanky in smoked glasses than any other guinea-pigs as eternal truths both universal and particular, each an emitter recipient and of course a place d1 
1 d2 2 with sixteen possible types of unbalanced relationships the double standard being inescapable even in semiotics. Not to mention the students. Students however according to the lanky wenchman dressed in democracy and smoked glasses are very malleable. The element of manipulation however should not be too visible for it destroys the fictive illusion by making the recipient over-aware of a technique at work.
Meanwhile Saroja Chaitwantee has at last fallen in love with Ali Nourennin just as he has grown a little weary of empty adagia wrapped in oriental mystery and hovers back to Hegel Heidegger Husserl. He also removes his watch, no one dreamer’s Kama Sutra fantasy coinciding in exactly the same quarter of an idyll.
Which needs adjusting.
Who speaks? What new narrator lover or mistress uttering there is no fear in love give not your soul etc except at night when the amber operates on both axes without taboo and all you need is care and courtesy (the notion of passion having disappeared), wondering however how to get through from the now which remains in the then to the then emptied of now. Simply by adding the heartlessness of then to then? But that is rather clumsy, metonymising the metaphor, projecting the horizontal axis of death onto the vertical axis of life and in a way cheating since you have given many a man a certain peculiar pleasure in frustrating their vulgar desire to know what happens inside you and that pleasure should not be dropped in mid-erection, leaving him hungry for it unless merely anorexic asthenic or cyclothymic, there can be no diagnosis since he too does not exist except as reinvestment itself perpetually reinventing S into O the Other Place and o the object of desire o1 o2 on.