A Man Of Action Forced Into A

Writers Speak Stench.

The Mediation By The Serpent Was Necessary. Evil Can Seduce Man, But Cannot Become Man.

He Thought Back On His Family With Deep Emotion And Love. His Conviction That He Would Have To Disappear Was, If Possible, Even Firmer Than His Sister's. He Remained In This State Of Empty And Peaceful Reflection Until The Tower Clock Struck Three In The Morning. He Still Saw That Outside The Window Everything Was Beginning To Grow Light. Then, Without His Consent, His Head Sank Down To The Floor, And From His Nostrils Streamed His Last Weak Breath.

I Am More Uncertain Than I Ever Was; I Feel Only The Power Of Life. And I Am Senselessly Empty.

Writing Is Utter Solitude, The Descent Into The Cold Abyss Of Oneself.