To Think Is An Act.

I Ask Myself: Is Every Story That Has Ever Been Written In This World, A Story Of Suffering And Affliction?

You Don't Understand Music: You Hear It. So Hear Me With Your Whole Body.

Whether She Won Or Lost, She Would Continue To Wrestle With Life. It Would Not Be With Her Own Life Alone But With All Of Life. Something Had Finally Been Released Within Her. And There It Was, The Sea.

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.

It Is Because I Dove Into The Abyss That I Am Beginning To Love The Abyss I Am Made Of.