I realize that I was all error and deviation, that I never lived, that I existed only in so far as I filled time with consciousness and thought.

My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.

I always live in the present. The future I can't know. The past I no longer have.

I search and can't find myself. I belong in chrysanthemum time, sharp in calla lily elongations. God made my soul into an ornamental thing.

Art gives us the illusion of liberation from the sordid business of being.

The chill of what I won't feel gnaws at my present heart.

It's not demons (who at least have a human face) but Hell itself that seems to be laughing inside me, it's the croaking madness of the dead universe, the spinning cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds blowing blackly in the wind, formless and timeless, without a God who created it, without even its own self, impossibly whirling in the absolute darkness as the one and only reality, everything.