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Reflecting fluid streaming on its own skin, it is petrified when it is pronounced, when it is arranged in knowledge. External sensation, sensation of contact, it oils the mechanisms of the knowledge and its axioms without never revealing itself there, lachrymal liquid of the knowledge, nearer to its eyes, it hides there. If the limit has other than itself, we can not know it.

The limit of freedom is knowledge, and all the powers that arise from it

The limit of freedom is the truth.

Nothing poetic, it’s all politics.

Politics of the body, politics of the lacunar space that two modal barks meet.

Of a circlusive word, the pronounced eros prefers to the truth, the alètheia

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