Simulation

Is this Mother’s simulation or yours? Have you enclosed me in the pages of a book? Me without me, without my body. Me sans me. You can deal with this me, can’t you? Wistful. Woozy. Mad, even. A little mad. Organisational Management gone mad. You like that, don’t you? O.M. gone philosophical.

The me you can handle. That you don’t have to fuck. That doesn’t profane.

The me without a body. The me who can’t fuck you or be fucked or bear your child. A spirit, right? Just as you’re a spirit. And we’re talking like two spirits in the dark.

You want to hear me speak. To just run on. To give you something for your idiotbuch. That’s what you’re writing. That’s what this is.


It’s my turn to talk – from now until forever. But really, I’m not saying anything. I’m suspending speech. I’m just being vague and woozy and a bit mad. Which, as it turns out, is just as you like it.


And I won’t bear your child. I won’t be pregnant with your child. Imagine that could have been your legacy on earth: a child, and not a book – not an idiotbuch. But you’ve opted for the idiotbuch …


You want me to say the things you’d like to say. You’ve given it to me: the speech you’d like to hear. You want to hear your anguish said by someone else – by an organisational manager. You want to hear philosophical anguish translated into the language of Organisational Management.


You want me to unleashed by madness, to be nothing but madness, talking. Does madness talk? What does madness say? What does wooziness say? This, maybe.


You want to simulate me. Me talking. You want to make me live forever. In place of you, maybe. Instead of you, maybe.