I Postpone Death By Living, By Suffering,

My Ideas Usually Come Not At My Desk Writing But In The Midst Of Living.

Write. Write Until It Stops Hurting.

When I Stand At The Top Of The Champs-elysées, With Its Chestnut Trees In Flower, Its Undulations Of Shining Cars, Its White Spaciousness, I Feel As If I Were Biting Into A Utopian Fruit, Something Velvety And Lustrous And Rich And Vivid.

There Is A Fissure In My Vision And Madness Will Always Rush Through.

Now That I Am Moving, I Am Afraid. Where Am I Going?