One day, says W., shit opened its eyes. One day, to the surprise of everyone, shit got up and walked around. – 'You were born'. It was a miracle, W. says. Shit found a voice; shit spoke; shit wrote – how extraordinary! But it was still shit, says W. – 'You're still shit'. I haven't understood that, have I?
Of course to me, everything's shit, it's all the same. – 'You're incapable of telling the difference'. I can't tell the difference between shit and non-shit, but there is a difference. – 'We were all so amazed that shit could speak, that we didn't think to tell you', W. says. Why should they tell shit boy? They laughed at him instead, who thought the world was made of shit. It's all shit, that's what was behind everything I said. We're all shit, all of us, that's what was behind everything I wrote.
'We thought it was hilarious', says W. 'But the joke was on us'. Because even he's losing it, the ability to tell shit apart from non-shit. It's hard to discern even for him, says W., the difference between shit and everything else. And meanwhile, there I am, happy as anything, a living piece of shit …
Lars Iyer's Blog 