The Journals

  And when I go to Mérida… The house where I was born and rais’d will change forever. Those rooms that have witnessed more stories than any scribe could have written in a lifetime. Those curs’d walls that have thankfully become blind, deaf, and mute, ‘cause who knows what they would say. The insideness of this home will become outsideness of my new world. I shall face true loneliness in the jungle next to the sea. Let the salty water, primordial semen of the earth that feeds the mangroves and the crabs cover me. Let me become blue in the void of the ocean. An eternal chasm made of the same matter! The same atoms! As you and me. Let the mushrooms rot my brain and teach me a world beyond my simple I. Let all the green leaves covered in insect eggs crush me under tonnes of decaying matter in which each tree grows and feasts. The moon will rise over the sea before the sun hits and makes god a greenhouse of infinite complexity. A will-less greenhouse of every mac...

  Lonely souls! Everyone just goes around doing stuff — despite knowing they are going to die. Because they know they can never do anything but occupy their restless minds. This is the reason love is so urgent, even to mishappen souls such as mine. ‘Cause without love and eros, souls flatten into a single dimensional line. Lonely souls merge with the background out of focus tones of black and grey intertwined.