And now I know that silence is not distance - it is despair and distress and failure and weakness and dissociation and repeated attempts to venture into that world we were promised and made and protected. I'm all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet. And I'm always seeking something, it's tiring in the end, and it's only the beginning.
He will write in words of fire. He will write them on his skin. He will write about desire. Write beginnings, write of sin. He himself is the book he loves the best, his skin only holds the truth, he will be a palimpsest lines of age rewriting youth. He will not burn upon the pyre or be buried on the shelf. This is his letter to desire: and he'll never read himself. He will trace each word and comma as the final dusk descends, this is his tale of dreams and drama, let us find out how it ends.
