The hero surviving his own murder, his own suicide, his own addiction, surviving his own disappearance from the scene
he threw up his hands and wrote the Universe dont exist and died to prove it
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction.
I don't think there is any truth. There are only points of view.
First thoughts are the strongest.
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!