All day long he was docile, intelligent, good, Though sometimes changing to a darker mood. He seemed hypocritical, could tell better lies, in the dark he saw dots of colors behind closed eyes, clenched fists, put his tongue out at his elder brother.

Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?

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

Come from forever, and you will go everywhere.