Even The Merest Gesture Is Holy If

Writing Is Utter Solitude, The Descent Into The Cold Abyss Of Oneself.

Last Night I Dreamed About You. What Happened In Detail I Can Hardly Remember, All I Know Is That We Kept Merging Into One Another. I Was You, You Were Me. Finally You Somehow Caught Fire.

How Pathetically Scanty My Self-knowledge Is Compared With, Say, My Knowledge Of My Room. There Is No Such Thing As Observation Of The Inner World, As There Is Of The Outer World.

If You Become Involved With Me, You Will Be Throwing Yourself Into The Abyss.

Sometimes I Think I Can Expiate All My Past And Future Sins Through The Aching Of My Bones.