Could It Think, The Heart

When I Write, I Solemnly Visit Myself.

There Are No Norms. All People Are Exceptions To A Rule That Doesn’t Exist.

My Boredom With Everything Has Numbed Me.

I Crave Time In All Its Duration, And I Want To Be Myself Unconditionally.

The Principle Tragedy Of My Life Is, Like All Tragedies, An Irony Of Destiny. I Reject Real Life As If It Were A Condemnation; I Reject Dreams As If They Were An Ignoble Liberation. [...]after The End Of The Stars Uselessly Whitened In The Morning Sky And The Breeze Became Less Cold In The Barely Orange Tinged In The Yellow Of The Light On The Scattered Low Clouds, I, Who Hadn't Slept, Could Finally, Slowly Raise My Body, Exhausted From Nothing From The Bed From Which I Had Thought The Universe.