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July 29, 2006

our father, who hath been burried by the ladys hand, whose name we must not utter save for the open field in anger, knew not creativity, but only will, and his will be done, for want of reputation and dignity, though the lady giveth none, and the barkeep giveth some, and the children keep out of our way.

July 29, 2006

there’s no mystery in sobriety, save those I invent. this life has been prefigured by history, the only free choice is to abandon what I feel I know. since this comprises all I might say I have, I am choosing the wagon, the night, the dreadful humidity of sin and lust, until I don’t know and can hardly feel. then when I have been unable to feel at all, when I know nothing, I can gratify all the senses equally, and create with abandon. and this idea is as bad as the rest.

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