I used to be someone else. I can't be her anymore.
The short version is that I had a reader who would not go away, who claimed precedence on all interpretations, who insisted that, no matter what, I was required to remain transparent to him. And eventually I realized that I couldn't write like that, that I was no longer safe, and that I had to be the one to leave.
It feels a bit like going into hiding.
Who I was, there, needs to remain there. I will say more soon about who I am here, about the connotations and associations that have come together to make this new set of texts.
For now, I ask only that you attempt to take seriously Derrida's much-misunderstood assertion that there is nothing outside the text.
One more pseudonym. One more time.