This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this and I do not. Everything is unique - and insignificant.

Whenever I happen to be in a city of any size, I marvel that riots do not break out everyday: Massacres, unspeakable carnage, a doomsday chaos. How can so many human beings coexist in a space so confined without hating each other to death?

The refutation of suicide: is it not inelegant to abandon a world which has so willingly put itself at the service of our melancholy?

Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!

If we had the courage to confront the doubts we timidly conceive about ourselves, none of us would utter an 'I' without shame.

By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?

I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me.