No It Is Not Easy To Write.

Love Is So Much More Deadly Than I Had Thought, Love Is So Much Inherent As The Very Lack, And We Are Guaranteed By A Need To Be Renewed Continuously. Love Is Now, Is Forever. There Is Just The Blow Of Grace - Call It Passion.

Love Is Now, Is Always. All That Is Missing Is The Coup De Grâce- Which Is Called Passion.

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.

Holding Someone's Hand Was Always My Idea Of Joy.

But I Welcome The Darkness Where The Two Eyes Of That Soft Panther Glow. The Darkness Is My Cultural Broth. The Enchanted Darkness. I Go On Speaking To You, Risking Disconnection: I’m Subterraneously Unattainable Because Of What I Know.