Brazil Is Where I Have To Be,

I Have Grown Weary Of Literature: Silence Alone Comforts Me. If I Continue To Write, It’s Because I Have Nothing More To Accomplish In This World Except To Wait For Death. Searching For The Word In Darkness. Any Little Success Invades Me And Puts Me In Full View Of Everyone. I Long To Wallow In The Mud. I Can Scarcely Control My Need For Self-abasement, My Craving For Licentiousness And Debauchery. Sin Tempts Me, Forbidden Pleasures Lure Me. I Want To Be Both Pig And Hen, Then Kill Them And Drink Their Blood.

Putting My Hand In Someone Else’s Has Always Been My Definition Of Happiness. Before I Fall Asleep, Often - In That Small Struggle Not To Lose Consciousness And Go Into The Greater World - Often, Before I Get Up The Courage To Go Into The Vastness Of Sleep, I Pretend That Someone Has My Hand In Theirs, And Then I Go, Go To That Enormous Absence Of Form That Is Sleep. And When Even After That I Don’t Have Courage, I Dream.

There It Is, The Sea, The Most Incomprehensible Of Non-human Existences.

In The World There Exists No Aesthetic Plane, Not Even The Aesthetic Plane Of Goodness.

I Just Know That I Don't Want Cheating. I Refuse. I Deepened Myself But I Don't Believe In Myself Because My Thought Is Invented.