so disquieting as your voice, a younger version of your voice, harmonizing with your dead sister, the other one that I never met, singing Ole Susannah into the dangling microphone that somehow, magically encodes your intonations onto black wax that has collected, in its forgotten attic corner, the hiss of years, of generations, now removed from that county fair, that carnival, and coated by some seventy years of detritus, falling from the walls of this world as if on deaf ears....
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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