I have nothing in mind for writing today.  Perhaps it was the troubling dream that came in the early morning hours that unaccountably erased/rebooted my psyche?  I am left with a mind that is grasping helplessly.  Nothing “makes sense.”  Is “making” sense nothing more than a safety-blanket of illusion?  Is that enough?  Can I live satisfied with only that?

Here are words from Bataille

---

When inquiry fails, we laugh.

The ravishments of ecstasy and burning Eros are so many questions
-without responses – to which nature and our nature are subjected.

If I knew how to respond to the moral inquiry – which I articulated
a little while ago – honestly,
I’d be decidedly distancing myself from the summit.

By leaving the question open in myself as a wound,
I hold onto a chance, a possible access to it.
If speaking as I have just now is fundamentally lying back like a sick man,
even precisely, lying down in order to die is not asking for care.
You will have to excuse my excessive irony.
I really don’t want to mock anyone.
I only want to mock the world; I mean the ungraspable nature from which I come.

We aren’t in the habit of taking it into account, if we reflect, if we speak,
but death will interrupt us.

I won’t always have to pursue the servile search for truth.
Every question will ultimately remain unanswered.
And I will slip away in such a way that I impose silence.
If others take up the job, they will not complete any more of it,
and death will cut off their speech as it does mine…

–excerpt On Nietzsche, by Georges Bataille, trans by Stuart Kendall p. 57