True. There is this inconsolable part of me that pushes so hard against the limits of my skin that it feels like the ends of inside. Meanwhile, you are out there, somewhere a body abandoned near the frontier. You know the seeping chill of the boundless blackness, the night assembling, the lovers dissembling, the children settling in to the torment of their dreams.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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