Thrownness Oakland, California
I stick my finger into existence – it smells of nothing. Where am I? Who am I? How came I here? What is this thing called the world? What does this world mean? Why was I not consulted, throwing me into the ranks, as if I had been bought by a kidnapper, a dealer in souls? And if I am to be compelled to take part in it, where is the director? Is there no director?
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