I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.

On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.

How many different deaths I can die?

And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

Stars open among the lilies. Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens? This is the silence of astounded souls.

To learn and think; to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.

The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.