Misreadings of Deleuze in part because he was so fond of misreading others, and also his work with Guattari
Inside the tailor is the sail always down opening itself into its world of choice and choosing to be done with what was done even if by the slightest of variations the world as it opens up and gets blown to smithereens while remaining whole and unchanged through an endless suite of dreams being built upon its face one hotel ripped down after another each gone as though never pre-existing with no trace except for the rubble except for the new ways of tinkering based on missteps of the past, constant folds upon folds of additional complexity by the hybridization of one thought upon another until all thought is decayed into a sap into which the present thinking sinks, gaining its nourishment from the sweet and sour of the disappeared now decomposed and congealed the many parts always moving in a fluid ever-primary destruction of the moment now and now into what appears in repetition of stages passing as one note never the same note because the passage has changed my hat being here right now instead of there where I left it before and thinking thought will not let me see will not see me as gone unchanged, those books on my shelf for instance, the buildings in the sky out my window for instance my family my friends the same way I saw them the moment before, though there may be the deception of resemblance but are displaced again increment by increment as I continue to think of them one thought sliding into another as if by an accident of floating particles whose motion never ceases and so I continue to exist as this flooding back and forth over the same ground but never as the same substance never quite arranged and ordered the way but my cold is of a different state than it was yesterday and my coughs take on a different rhythm, my body creeping with a different set of desires or similar desires reconfigured like those I may have experienced before but informed by other thoughts and the memory of actions and events that have fallen in between whose signature and arrangements have stirred the substance of the flood in ways that would be novel and even in its vanishing and ghostly in its way of explaining itself to me in its transforming itself into images of the past as they change and the words how they are always mutating to present themselves as what work they have today to be guessing a meaning and how they attempt to match and never matching change what was meant and what it was we had tried to mean by distortions of telling and always caught in the permutations of fear and desire as if looking through the glassy liquid of the self-non-self as it pours over and into a never purely separate within the glossy gel of all other continuing always to run together