So Long As I Have Questions To

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.

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.

Even Great Men Are Only Truly Recognized And Honored Once They Are Dead. Why? Because Those Who Praise Them Need To Feel Themselves Somehow Superior To The Person Praised, They Need To Feel They Are Making Some Concession.

I Want The Following Word: Splendor, Splendor Is Fruit In All Its Succulence, Fruit Without Sadness. I Want Vast Distances. My Savage Intuition Of Myself.

No It Is Not Easy To Write. It Is As Hard As Breaking Rocks. Sparks And Splinters Fly Like Shattered Steel.