The illness is nauseating. The thick sleep never abandons me and oftentimes it comes enforced as if with a hammer and it is completely restless. For writers illness is a particular issue, because I assume that bearing an illness invests the person with certain powers that be, with a certain gift for prophecy and a wisdom not at all temporal because the person is faced on a daily basis with the choice or the actual possibility of death – it adds a new and very radical temporal index to one´s life on earth, as if seen from the moment before its end but not quite there yet. Another thing is when the writer decides to turn a blind eye to death – to clean his vocabulary from any reference to illness or death, especially to any allusion to physical pain; as if he were completely in the know-how that by avoiding semantic references to his condition he could not only delay his final sentence but actually be healed altogether. If he is honest with himself (and he might just as well be not) he will certainly know that he doesn´t want to be fooled, deceived or lied to, but he knows that there is a sentence, he can feel it at every joint and fiber of his body that already while alive begins to rot while he can´t be sure about this at all – it might be a treat of his madness. Time to write!