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.