Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting

No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.

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.

Do you know that hope sometimes consists only of a question without an answer?

I write to save someone's life, probably my own

Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.

I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.