There's compulsion of writing, as if there were no other way in which I could keep myself going; I've been to the morning, so sunny and fresh, absolutely beautiful and paced, but I am living out of different materials which are not necessarily different in the temporal sense; syncopated daydreaming that extends into realms beyond that of the simple task of writing. The world seems to be run with extreme paucity of mind, so slow that I can no longer keep track of the changes because of my impatience - in the books, everything works a little faster, a variety of temporal indexes blend in, dreams and letters, things I had wanted to say and things I had never wanted to talk about. Never before had I waited for the mornings with such sense of disfiguration, enjoying if only for very brief moments the gifts of early life, not wanting to miss one single moment. The writing becomes a compulsion not only because I ignore how could I possibly live hadn't I done this, but also because the limits of the format seem stretched into other fields that require dead things in order to come to life, such as art and music. I would like to be read in so many possible ways, to leave the reader undone and completely disturbed, stealing his peace of mind, a very slow form of poisoning that walks around in circles through the eyelids and remains ever so awake even through the slumber of the hours.
Earthly life, that moment of life, how much she loved walking in the city, much better than in the country, rejoicing in artifacts, trying not to decay into dust, one single sentence for the whole day, the untimely meditation of the rush, who would have thought there could be a story to be told? I inspect favourite writers and others less beloved, not trying to compare experiences as such but more like lifting up the achievements of the language to such a level in which it becomes completely incomprehensible - not incomprehensible in the level of scientific formulae, but in a reckless excess of recognition, drowning the names and the things in the world beneath a think surface of ink, so that one reader, far away, should be trying to save his life, not in order not to die, but with the sole intention of safeguarding his own body from falling into the abyss of ordinary things. How ordinary could they be after all? There's nothing really spectacular about this, except for the insertion of time into the inert life of earthly things, as if everything were dying at the same time, consumed at the same time that the flesh is ripped from the bones and thrown at the request of the bearer into a vault of inertia.