There It Is, The Sea, The Most

I' Is Merely One Of The World's Instantaneous Spasms.

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.

Today At School I Wrote An Essay About Flag Day Which Was So Beautiful, But Ever So Beautiful - For I Even Used Words Without Really Knowing What They Meant.

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

I Ask Myself: Is Every Story That Has Ever Been Written In This World, A Story Of Suffering And Affliction?