The essential is to go on squirming forever at the end of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven asporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits.

The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust

I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

Love requited is a short circuit.

It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.

The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.