Odd to you, perhaps, but I find this one exciting and, uhm, stimulating? Emphasis added to the part that's really cool, the part that gets the post-structuralist in me really going.
...from the invisible inside, where I could neither see nor want the very thing that I have always been scared to have revealed on the scanner, by analysis - radiology, echography, endocrinology, hematology - a crural vein expelled my blood outside that I thought beautiful once stored in that bottle under a label that I doubted could avoid confusion or misappropriation of the vintage, leaving me nothing more to do, the inside of my life exhibiting itself outside, expressing itself before my eyes, absolved without a gesture, dare I say of writing if I compare the pen to a syringe, and I always dream of a pen that would be a syringe, a suction point rather than that very hard weapon with which one must inscribe, incise, choose, calculate, take ink before filtering the inscribable, playing the keyboard on the screen, whereas here, once the vein has been found, no more toil, no responsibility, no risk of bad taste or violence, the blood delivers itself all alone, the inside gives itself up and you can do as you like with it, it's me but I'm no longer there, for nothing, for nobody, diagnose the worst...
The part I bolded is my excuse for why I haven't written a book. And if I write a book, it will probably be a book on how hard it is to write a book, and the part I bolded will probably epigraph.
Actually, I've got a few epigraphs in mind. Just have to whip up the rest, I guess.