Intro..                                                                                      ...Back
Draw...                                                                                      ..Along
Poems..                                                                                      ...More



       I still don't know exactly: if the so-called: heavy books - attract me - because I am a snob:
and: the most impassioned of all snobs is the educated     (it's as cute as I don't care how I look:
but: I would bitten and chewed the whole living world - just to convince everyone:    I'm not stupid
half-scholar:) :or indeed I'm free already: as far as possible: and: I long for knowledge honestly?
(I hate Don Quijote (Sorry Miguel) :and: I've struggled with it three times:          because it's a
breakthrough: and: the first novel: and: clear clear value: but I swear:  I never again contact with
my touch: that terrible boring green brick!
       I read the introduction to Spinoza's Ethics:  editorial preface: in several places:    I also
participated: in the overall essentially consent: in which this was carried: especially that:    the
greatest freedom of man: and maybe the only one too: is in the knowledge: and that is joy.
       But then: after immersing myself in the work itself: my head started to hurt:   so I left it: 
before it could increase my nausea - but - I don’t rule out that - in my unfree future:  I will come
back and I will like it - though not by my own free will: which:  although I tend to dream with eyes
open: I don't have it absolutely.
       Almost always: I am totally out: as far as books are concerned:     favorite among people and
gregarious celebrities. How many known artists: were fatally found in Salinger's hero: when:       I
myself wandered in that high rye: like a blind hare to the very end: waiting for something:     what
will be so abnormally preternaturally amazing - and nothing - the end.
       Am I defective?
       Am I immature? 
       And: what about the Little Prince?  :Why it seems to me overspeculated:  touchingly: too much
calculated into the cute emptiness
       Of course: it could be a stupid envy of an unsuccessful literate on my part   - I couldn't do
anything myself - so at least: I try to defile the deities - it is possible:       my ego does it so
honestly: that: I don't even feel the poison anymore.
       Or I was corrupt by too much expectations - these books are supposed to be beautiful:     and
true: so: I expect too much beauty and truth: the experiences:      which I already have defined too
much.
       Who knows 

       And what about time?
       I should be respectful of people: who so hard drilled the way to the things:  which I consider
to be beautiful and true?
       No. It's cruel: 
       The real art is (greetings Pablo) forever and without time: NOW: