The world independed on me — that was the trust I had reached: the world independed on me, and I am not understanding whatever it is I’m saying, never! never again shall I understand anything I say.

Because a world fully alive has the power of a Hell.

At half past three in the morning I woke up. And immediately elastic Ijumped out of bed. I came to write you. I mean: be. Now it’s half past five. Iwant nothing: I am pure. I don’t wish this solitude on you. But I myself amin the creating fog. Lucid darkness, luminous stupidity.

No. It’s not easy. But it “is.” I ate my own placenta so as not to have to eat for four days. To have milk to give you. Milk is a “this.” And no one is I. No one is you. That is what solitude is.

At half past three in the morning I woke up. And immediately elastic I jumped out of bed. I came to write you. I mean: be. Now it’s half past five. I want nothing: I am pure. I don’t wish this solitude on you. But I myself am in the creating fog. Lucid darkness, luminous stupidity.

This text that I give you is not to be seen close up: it gains its secret previously invisible roundness when seen from a high-flying plane. Then you can divine the play of islands and see the channels and seas. Understand me: I write you an onomatopoeia, convulsion of language. I’m not transmitting to you a story but just words that live from sound. I speak to you thus:“Lustful trunk.

But there are those who starve to death and all I can do is be born. My rigmarole is: what can I do for them? My answer is: paint a fresco in adagio. I could suffer the hunger of others in silence but a contralto voice makes me sing—I sing dull and black. It’s my message of a person alone. A person eats another from hunger. But I fed myself with my own placenta. And I’m not going to bite my nails because this is a tranquil adagio.