One Should Never Write Down Or Up

I Seldom Try To Probe The Mystery Of My Sloth. I Have Squandered A Gigantic Fortune Of Work Hours... Seems Likely That I'll Go On Squandering Till The Very End.

What’s So Phony Nowadays Is All This Familiarity. Pretending There Isn’t Any Difference Between People —well, Like You Were Saying About Minorities, This Morning. If You And I Are No Different, What Do We Have To Give Each Other? How Can We Ever Be Friends?

I Am A Camera With Its Shutter Open, Quite Passive, Recording, Not Thinking.

Staring And Staring Into The Mirror, It Sees Many Faces Within Its Face - The Face Of The Child, The Boy, The Young Man, The Not-so-young Man - All Present Still, Preserved Like Fossils On Superimposed Layers, And, Like Fossils, Dead. Their Message To This Live Dying Creature Is: Look At Us - We Have Died - What Is There To Be Afraid Of? It Answers Them: But That Happened So Gradually, So Easily. I'm Afraid Of Being Rushed.

Think Of Two People, Living Together Day After Day, Year After Year, In This Small Space, Standing Elbow To Elbow Cooking At The Same Small Stove, Squeezing Past Each Other On The Narrow Stairs, Shaving In Front Of The Same Small Bathroom Mirror, Constantly Jogging, Jostling, Bumping Against Each Other’s Bodies By Mistake Or On Purpose, Sensually, Aggressively, Awkwardly, Impatiently, In Rage Or In Love – Think What Deep Though Invisible Tracks They Must Leave, Everywhere, Behind Them!