Exactly how do I write? I had,
like many others,
the perverted desire to adopt a system and a norm.
What hand will I reach out,
and to what universe? The universe isn’t mine: it’s me.
From my own experience that all
systems are defensible and intellectually possible
and to enjoy the intellectual art of constructing systems,
I would have to be able to forget that
the goal of metaphysical speculation is the search for truth.
I endeavoured to make all my thoughts and all the
daily chapters of my experience provide me with nothing but sensations.
Like diplomacy,
it has no real substance,
existing not in its own right but
completely and utterly on behalf of some objective.
Your lips are silent doves.
Action is self-exile.
In all the acts of your real life,
from that of being born to that of dying,
you don’t act—you’re acted; you don’t live—you’re merely lived.
Morning has broken,
as if it had fallen from the pallid summit of Time.