At the Cafe 16:40

In brief, there's no way one can mourn over his own person but in laughter, again, on and on. A Hegelian escapade, a running forth from behind the axis. In a way that the senses are corrupted by a view of reality that hardly resembles itself, that provides no meaning, no cure, no symbols nor language. The circle's thoroughly incomplete and the line turns into a mellow awaiting for the moment of vertigo in which it might somehow make sense... An unworldly but extreme pain, the recurrent transformation into the animal metamorphosis but only half way, the radical turning point that pivots itself no less than it can shatter the vantage place, the time, the sight... They all turn palid, mythological, motherly, gemuetlich, wunthering; conquerors, unremarkable, drinking eternity from the very moment of their upheaval, entering the gate... Being rather unled, unwashed, unkind. There's just not enough mourning. Zu Grunde gehen, im Grenzen des Anfangs oder im Anfang selbst, an-sich-selbst.