In This Metallic Age Of Barbarians, Only

To Live Strikes Me As A Metaphysical Mistake Of Matter, A Dereliction Of Inaction.

If I Write What I Feel, It's To Reduce The Fever Of Feeling. What I Confess Is Unimportant, Because Everything Is Unimportant.

Should I Be What I Think? But I Think About Being So Many Things!

I Never Go To Where's A Risk. I'm Frightened Of Dangers Down To Boredom.

Silence Emerges From The Sound Of Rain And Spreads In A Crescendo Of Gray Monotony Over The Narrow Street I Contemplate. I’m Sleeping While Awake, Standing By The Window, Leaning Against It As Against Everything. I Search In Myself For The Sensations I Feel Before These Falling Threads Of Darkly Luminous Water That Stand Out From The Grimy Building Facades And Especially From The Open Windows. And I Don’t Know What I Feel Or What I Want To Feel. I Don’t Know What To Think Or Where I Am.