We only ever think an acre of the anima-mundi

in the dead of night. Like morning mist,

  thought evaporates into ourselves as the sun rises

       and the world reads out the register,

demanding that we say: yes, when our names are called.

   We only ever tell the truth to silence

and when we do, even the silence is dismayed.

Dead zones of the imagination: On violence, bureaucracy, and interpretive labor.

http://eprints.lse.ac.uk/53222/1/Graeber_Dead_zones_imagination_2012.pdf