Express Only That Which Cannot Be Expressed.

I Lean Over You, Your Equal, Offering You A Mirror For Your Perfect Nothingness, For Your Shadows Which Are Neither Light Nor Absence Of Light, For This Void Which Contemplates. To All That Which You Are, And, For Our Language, Are Not, I Add A Consciousness. I Make You Experience Your Supreme Identity As A Relationship, I Name You And Define You. You Become A Delicious Passivity.

To See Was Terrifying, And To Stop Seeing Tore Me Apart From My Forehead To My Throat.

I Wanted To See Something In Full Daylight; I Was Sated With The Pleasure And Comfort Of The Half Light; I Had The Same Desire For The Daylight As For Water And Air. And If Seeing Was Fire, I Required The Plenitude Of Fire, And If Seeing Would Infect Me With Madness, I Madly Wanted That Madness.

The Journal Is Not Essentially A Confession, A Story About Oneself. It Is A Memorial. What Does The Writer Have To Remember? Himself, Who He Is When He Is Not Writing, When He Is Living His Daily Life, When He Is Alive And Real, And Not Dying And Without Truth.

There Is Between Sleep And Us Something Like A Pact, A Treaty With No Secret Clauses, And According To This Convention It Is Agreed That, Far From Being A Dangerous, Bewitching Force, Sleep Will Become Domesticated And Serve As An Instrument Of Our Power To Act. We Surrender To Sleep, But In The Way That The Master Entrusts Himself To The Slave Who Serves Him.