I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.

. . . be absolute moderne.

What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?

I shed more tears than God could ever have required.

Now I am an outcast. I loathe my country. The best thing for me is a drunken sleep on the beach.

Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.

Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.