«Recently my thoughts have been pointillistic: timeless markers, like an old prison tattoo, a program for a learning addiction. You see, friend, I have been trying to compose myself, tentatively, as an archetype for a Learner, the archetype to kill all archetypes. This is based on my intuition or the real possibility that the Hanged Man is a paper thin instantiation of the end of the fool and their becoming aware of the game, and also, on another modest but shattering conjecture: that this same card is the singular moment in which the students can transcend, or rather, suspend the Major Arcana, the Tarot itself, having their ossature and innervation expunged from the narrative, and offer themselves to the task of prescribing new modes of description, deception and possibly, conception. I am, then, writing you to communicate how I have solved the prisoner's dillema, defecting to and from my self.

[The possibility of learning takes him to the verge of tears, a kind of desperate exhaustion. The moment of insight into the intricacies of reasoning takes her – again - to the verge of tears. That vertigo suspends knowledge in a haze of consummated desire and leaves them hanging in their own ecstasy, disconcerted and dissatisfied with one of their selves.]

He can count every leaf from where he is. He can study every memory and learn all histories for he is Funes, an always-already dead man, revived by each new chlorophyl poisoned photon and each catastrophe of rustling and creaking branches falling, being pressed into coal, and sprouting again, teasing and coaxing Prometheus into masterful disgrace.
He is every possible cadaver and every possible antecedent of death and every possible way of worldmaking - the most generous precursor of ends, the annihilation of the probable.
She is not a ruler, but a description of a rule, its history and its ingenuity and, most importantly, she laughs at her designated ignorance and laughs, too, rejoicing, when learning of the possibility of suspending it in the end of arrogance as a self defeating end, and then he is the most acute insecurity, that which is not, that which mustn't be itself in order to -
She should be golem, for hanging is not an essence, but an activity. Her lazy eye creates a continual rapid blueprint of the world and brackets it with her bloodless, categorical, merely structural, legs.
The only time she needs is that which may be necessary for each death, for each lesson, for each vertiginous theorem, for each abduction of incompleteness, that drop of time strictly needed for a drunken root to attach itself to the thin paper walls of the cosmos.
Thus, their epitaphs precede their capitulation into being:

His fame is a thing of silence, but he decorates the world and destroys it, for he learns not of appearances, neither of clothes, rites, and likenesses.
She is the learner of indiscipline, she is an amphibian methodology, a swaying, a lurch, a knot aware of being a rope and but a mere rope aware of being a knot.
It is a squirming awareness feedbacking on new bondage techniques to extricate itself from atavism and recapitulation, in ecstasy.
It is a pendular tripe in a constant state of drawing out the universe in its endless scribbling gut.
She is breathless after learning how to not breathe, a Roussell machine explaining itself into existence [screeching, farting, burping, beeping]
and existence unto itself.
When I study him within myself I would say rather that he gives off a slow and awkward ecstasy, disguising the irritant stench of putrefaction.
She is the death of the given, is the myth which forms itself by unmaking itself.
I am the one staring at the gargling river and extinguishing it with names, and it is then that we hang not, gasping interruptions in the condition of being a subject - »