Sublime

Writing is like the drug I abhor and keep taking, the addiction I despise and depend on.

My impatience keeps trying to tear me away from that peace, and my inertia keeps holding me there.

I’m a perpetual unfolding of connected and disconnected images — always disguised as something external — that stand between men and the light if I’m awake, or between ghosts and the visible dark if I’m asleep. I really do not know how to distinguish one from the other, nor would I venture to affirm that I’m not sleeping when I’m awake, or that I’m

Cada uno de nosotros es varios, es muchos, es una prolijidad de sí mismos.

there are horrors that the world’s men don’t imagine and fears to endure that human experience doesn’t know.

¿Pero a qué asisto cuando me leo como a un extraño? ¿A qué orilla estoy si me veo en el fondo?

‘My habits are of solitude, not of men.’ I don’t know if it was Rousseau or Senancour who said this. But it was some mind of my species, it being perhaps too much to say of my race.