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.

Everything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.

I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.

For one has the right to shout. So, I am shouting.

How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?

But I welcome the darkness where the two eyes of that soft panther glow. The darkness is my cultural broth. The enchanted darkness. I go on speaking to you, risking disconnection: I’m subterraneously unattainable because of what I know.

In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.