It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.

. . . be absolute moderne.

I saw that all beings are fated to happiness: action is not life, but a way of wasting some force, an enervation. Morality is the weakness of the brain.

True life is elsewhere

Hay que ser absolutamente Moderno

Love...no such thing. Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that's not love. That's stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn't exist. Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented, that’s certain.

What am I doing here?