The third time I received the same data as the student, I remembered nothing more than those widely used phrases, in which nothing had crushed my intelligence. “We are nothing,” “life makes no sense,” “God, if he is as innocent as they say, why does this do us?” It wasn't in front of a coffin, it wasn't a tanatorium, it wasn't a graveyard. It was a print.
Who taught them how to write, fuck. We are governed by an untalented species that should be kept away from books, letters. And rule at almost every level. I never expected to believe in meritocracy, but in the opposite direction. The higher, the less talent. They start at home, they make lists, they sort everything out, and they're able to spend more understandable hours, but they're also able to memorize long lessons, along with other classifications and lists. And it's not a static situation, if we don't fight, we'll have to fill out an exemption form to get out of bed, or the one that tells us that we take responsibility for the risk, for example, if we don't want to get up a foot before or a foot later, if we don't want to go out together and make a jump, because that will lead to a 6 percent increase in the risk of falling your ankle, Doctor Massachusetts will have to look at the computer and pay. And as what you're sitting in gold will be C1B2, or Baccalaureate and equivalents, or what the rubric says, or the tests, or the diagnoses, or the names and surnames needed to collect the IGR. And there will be someone who says to your side, “If not, the one who really needs it will not.” Who really needs it. I never dare to ask what is “real.” I fear that if you find it wrong to cheat as much as possible, it will be the conditions that the form “really” sets. Reality is marked by the form that comes from above. And those people say, desperately, "i-le-ga-la," "you can't." “We have our hands tied.” “Otherwise, we know how to do it.” “You have to be realistic.” The latter is what I love the most.
And it's to be realistic, to bend reality to the limits of the print. Every hole that needs to be filled points to the precipice of boundaries, threatens you with chaos, with nothing. And so when we're about to self-harm, we feel stupid. They've won. Why do we not strike against bureaucracy?
I turned around the burial and breathed. The secretary looked at me strangely. You have something in your hair. They're flowers. In fact, some of us live in stories. It was impossible.
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