I no longer think of madness. New words need to be found. Language has to take over. Last night in the bar I danced a rock ‘n’ roll with a handsome slender boy. His naked torso and his hands clutching mine.

I thought, I had forgotten – my writing is my contact with the physical world. I need it, I breathe words, sometimes I say them. Violet hands, hairy thighs.

I have to forget what I’ve read and yet I need it to feed my brain. Everybody is unique and every writing must be. I don’t care about similitude. I need to see the words emerge from my pen. I love them to be poured onto paper from inside my typewriter. They are more than physical. They are cosmic, talking, eating, loving, leading a life of their own. I never told anyone about this. And I do not see how to mix living persons into my writing. The fear to disfigure them. To love them less than I love my words.

Or maybe I am afraid of losing my words for something more concrete. But is there … ?

I need to work on this. I feel it is too early to accept these words as a finality. I have to live more, to find a way of giving birth to words, to secure their future existence.