Section 0011

     Somewhere between steel reefs, a wire wrapped in gutta-percha vibrates: I herebyzzZZZZ…the critical situation . . . a crushing blow. There was immediate silence as though cold water had been poured on a roaring flame.
     Tonight, we are made of sex and remain more ghost than ever was read.
     He should have known that from the darkness on the street, but he hadn’t paid any attention.
     “Crazy man,” he said.
     That did not prevent his ritual identification, his effort at identification, with god. It would have been a fine life except that he was in love. A social disaster so far-reaching, an organic disorder so mysterious - this overflow of vices, this total exorcism which presses and impels the soul to its utmost - all indicate the presence of a state which is nevertheless characterized by extreme strength and in which all the powers of nature are freshly discovered at the moment when something essential is going to be accomplished.

     Some days even a cup of coffee is violence. So now I know.

     And then the storm burst.
     Maybe that’s what we look for all our lives, the worst possible grief, to make us truly ourselves before we die.
     “I’m like the others, but I tell you it’s not done that way.”
     Whenever I have a day with my love I rise in the morning with the day inside me. This dilemma, however, is by no means universally recognized. On the contrary.