I Write And That Way Rid Myself

I Write And That Way Rid Myself Of Me And Then At Last I Can Rest.

In The World There Exists No Aesthetic Plane, Not Even The Aesthetic Plane Of Goodness.

I Have Grown Weary Of Literature: Silence Alone Comforts Me. If I Continue To Write, It’s Because I Have Nothing More To Accomplish In This World Except To Wait For Death. Searching For The Word In Darkness. Any Little Success Invades Me And Puts Me In Full View Of Everyone. I Long To Wallow In The Mud. I Can Scarcely Control My Need For Self-abasement, My Craving For Licentiousness And Debauchery. Sin Tempts Me, Forbidden Pleasures Lure Me. I Want To Be Both Pig And Hen, Then Kill Them And Drink Their Blood.

Things Were Somehow So Good That They Were In Danger Of Becoming Very Bad Because What Is Fully Mature Is Very Close To Rotting

You Don't Understand Music: You Hear It. So Hear Me With Your Whole Body.