I've never feared anything but becoming a cliche, which is of course in and of itself the grandest of all cliches. My life has become a series of sanguine non sequiturs, like the perfect dream. And dreams are indeed the perfect things: not constrained by logic or physics or fidelities, we are Gods disconnected from consequence. And how does one write the next sentence, being occupied at every juncture by the inevitability of cause, a predestination, a preterition, an infinity of quantum couldofbeens that I will snuff out by not writing into existence. It seems unimportant yes but so is everything unimportant and so why not lend importance to these mysteries that consume lives and drive a man mad. The ones that keep him sane has led him to kill his fellow man for centuries and there is a peacefulness, or at least a self-containedness in madness, where one does only violence to his own psyche.
On madness, on madness! I cannot keep you from it. It is a poison and it dies with me and I am afraid to die. So taste it because you after all were the one who chose it not me we choose the hearts we love not the ones that pump us full of poison. So it is a different poison you are looking for? I think it is a good choice. This one works slowly. It's a chemotherapeutic salve; I see you happy and I see you dying and I can't stand it don't you see I'm not trying to drag you down I'm only trying to save you by showing you there is a different way. One madness trumps the other it kills it it replaces it. I want you I want you
I want you to be like me