The End Of Exile Is The End

You Were The Living Image Of The Entire Platonic Shadow Show, An Illusion That Could Fill My Emptiness With Marvellous, Imaginary Things As Long As, Just As Long As, The Movie Lasted, And Then All Would All Vanish.

He Is, I Think, Already Pondering A Magisterial Project: That Of Buggering The English Language, The Ultimate Revenge Of The Colonialised.

A Book Is Simply The Container Of An Idea-like A Bottle; What Is Inside The Book Is What Matters.

He Was Prepared To Die For It, As One Of Baudelaire's Dandies Might Have Been Prepared To Kill Himself In Order To Preserve Himself In The Condition Of A Work Of Art, For He Wanted To Make This Experience A Masterpiece Of Experience Which Absolutely Transcended The Everyday. And This Would Annihilate The Effects Of The Cruel Drug, Boredom, To Which He Was Addicted Although, Perhaps, The Element Of Boredom Which Is Implicit In An Affair So Isolated From The Real World Was Its Principle Appeal For Him.

I Desire Therefore I Exist.