ON A CUT UMBILICAL CORD

I sought my refuge so convulsively. I was tired of the leak that left me alone and tormented me. Judgement and words boiled like volcanoes in me like a glowing wasteland. I am still alive, though my days are gradually ruined and damaged by fear of the future and monotony. Like the colour-blind man, who seldom sees a woman's sweet lips, or a wavy rainbow of variegated colours, must balance my will on needle-ropes, and in my buried heart I would rather ask memories and thoughts to give way to the deeper context of manhood! 

V.I.P.- falls, Don Perinon, a gang of scheming colonel-readers, a gang of deceived, fangs flashing, envy and malice at once, if it takes to turn five minutes of visibility into a national fame, to make the hordes of this earthly, ischamous Styx, almost all of them, a prisoner of its own.

It is often better to cling to no tears than to no endless chains of broken promises. My slipping shadow may stay but by my side, As my only faithful betrayer, Who only departs when the rose of dawn is nigh. - Chaos as apocalyptic confusion can never be beautiful or merciful. - Gawping crows curse with cawing loudness On the arms of deserted trees that have grown bone daggers, Waiting for passing. 

In the ring of lights the pit of Being expands and deepens at once, as in the hoarse cry of mother-born babies the orphaned anxiety: the time of redemptive, angelic hope is prematurely stained, like a tar-mud puddle gathered on the stones of a wet street. The severed umbilical cord that once bound her to this earth with every nerve is suddenly always severed. I am-I will be myself!