The ocean will devour you, its yawning jaws. Forgetful in its depths, its blackness, the infinite will say nothing as you sink. The distant voices, the boisterous waves, cannot reach you with their slippery grip. Plotting with the anxious breath of tornado and typhoon, the sky will not be humbled by your prayers. This sky, enchanting in affect and sewn with the vibrant silk and eye of sunset, sings a siren's melody. Such savage beauty will tear you to shreds, will scatter you. But land is not a refuge. The rocks are hard with gravity, and after cold with bone. The earth will turn you under, inside, out. Our dead nerves rely on only the eyes (remaining) to discern, And the pit of night is illuminated with the reckless tongues of fire that chant your name. The percussive chorus carried on embers into forests and fields, incediary gems that will destroy us. Destroy everything.
"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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