Un al? de vida

Sometimes writing a single line is enough to save your own heart.

Oh I no longer want to express myself with words: I want to do so with “I-kiss-you.”

Every book is blood, it’s pus, it’s excrement, it’s heart torn to shreds, it’s nerves cut to pieces, it’s electric shock, it’s coagulated blood running like boiling lava down the mountain.

I seek disorder, I seek the primitive state of chaos. That is where I feel myself living. I need the darkness that implores, the receptivity of the most primary forms of wanting.

Farewell, Day, it’s already dusk. I’m Sunday’s child.

to stop writing is to stop living.

I, frightened gazelle and yellow butterfly. I’m no more than a comma in life. I who am a colon. Thou, thou art my exclamation. I breathe myself thee.