I Wrote Silences; Nights; I

A Man Who Wants To Mutilate Himself Is Certainly Damned, Isn't He?

The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through A Long, Vast And Painstaking Derangement Of All The Senses

It Began As Research. I Wrote Of Silences, Of Nights, I Scribbled The Indescribable. I Tied Down The Vertigo.

Is It In These Bottomless Nights That You Sleep In Exile?

I Believe That I Am In Hell, Therefore I Am There.