The Hymen (n.) is the always folded space in which the pen writes its dissemination: metaphorically the consummation of marriage, literally the absence of consummation.
The Hymen (n.) is no indispensable word: marriage or crime would do the same work, save for a condensation.
The Hymen (n.) means membrane and marriage at once, so the line between inside and outside is both kept intact and erased.
The Hymen (n.) is the fold where a text meets its blank, a veil between writing and white.
The Hymen (n.) is neither desire nor pleasure but the in-between of the two.
The Hymen (n.) takes place only when it does not take place, when nothing really happens.
The Hymen (n.) makes the gaping void of desire and the fullness of enjoyment amount to the same.
The Hymen (n.) is pierced only in fiction: a threshold penetrated in appearance and never crossed.
The Hymen (n.) outwits every ontology: as a cloth, a tissue, a medium, it envelops them, turns them over and inscribes them.
The Hymen (n.) is never pure or proper: it has no life of its own and no proper name.
The Hymen (n.) is divided from and by itself: it differs from itself even before the letter opener can separate its lips.
The Hymen (n.) is the structure of and/or, between and and or, and it leaps from one signified to another.
The Hymen (n.) is not the truth of an unveiling; there is no alitheia, only a wink of the hymen.
The Hymen (n.) is tainted with vice yet sacred: fixed but hollow, like a glowing screen, like an eye.