It Is Not The Object Described That

I Have Been Writing In Spurts, Bit By Bit. It Is Incredibly Difficult. Everything Is Corroded, Broken, Dismantled; Everything Is Covered With Hardened Layers Of Accumulated Insensitivity, Deafness, Entrenched Routine. It Is Disgusting.

I Am Caught Like A Beast At Bay. Somewhere Are People, Freedom, Light, But All I Hear Is The Baying Of The Pack, There Is No Way Out For Me.

Even So, One Step From My Grave, I Believe That Cruelty, Spite, The Powers Of Darkness Will In Time Be Crushed By The Spirit Of Light.

As Far As Modern Writing Is Concerned, It Is Rarely Rewarding To Translate It, Although It Might Be Easy. Translation Is Very Much Like Copying Paintings.

I Used To Be Very Revolutionary, But Now I Think That Nothing Can Be Gained By Brute Force. People Must Be Drawn To Good By Goodness.