I’m writing to wring the angels out. I’m writing always to find myself, to create myself, to lose myself…and to find that I never was anything at any particular moment except an exception to all rules. An accepting wish of dying stars. I am sitting and squirming and always singing in my head the listless threads that tie together the sense of being senseless.
I find myself riding the wave of another ceaseless drive into the ocean, into the abysmal ending of my new age…of my old passion and my desperate breath.