For At The Hour Of

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.

A Horse Is Freedom So Indominable That It Becomes Useless To Imprison It To Serve Man: It Lets Itself Be Domesticated, But With A Simple, Rebellious Toss Of The Head-shaking Its Mane Like An Abundance Of Free-flowing Hair-it Shows That Its Inner Nature Is Always Wild, Translucent And Free.

Her Curiosity Instructed Her More Than The Answers She Was Given.

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.

I Just Know That I Don't Want Cheating. I Refuse. I Deepened Myself But I Don't Believe In Myself Because My Thought Is Invented.