A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

If Nothing Were Substituted For Everything, It Would Still Be Too Much And Too Little.

My Being Subsists Only From A Supreme Point Of View Which Is Precisely Incompatible With My Point Of View. The Perspective In Which I Fade Away For My Eyes Restores Me As A Complete Image For The Unreal Eye To Which I Deny All Images. A Complete Image With Reference To A World Devoid Of Image Which Imagines Me In The Absence Of Any Imaginable Figure. The Being Of A Nonbeing Of Which I Am The Infinitely Small Negation Which It Instigates As Its Profound Harmony. In The Night Shall I Become The Universe?

To See Was Terrifying, And To Stop Seeing Tore Me Apart From My Forehead To My Throat.

A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

Weak Thoughts, Weak Desires: He Felt Their Force.