I have not yet started, but I have to stop here. Glooms
have gradually increased in this way and that way. They
are complex and ever gyrating; they have left me creating
a unique silence with the psychic conditions of someone
else in my mind.
Two paths come ahead at a strange place; all my mental
glooms at last follow them at an area that has no sign post.
I have advanced trampling my own bloods as if they
could fall asleep in the open noise of the late afternoon.
At last I follow both the paths; on their courses ahead they
get united and become lonelier.
I have gone and come for a long period of time. I have
seen breasts resembling a crescent moon, emotional river
like the grapes, body like a fruit-bent tree. I have followed
the paths many a time, never have I stopped. Rendering
the opening of fire wretchedly infected with disease, I
have come back many a time.
Firstly, I felt love for the zigzag course of desires; the
feelings of giving company to nights touched me im-
pressed. We can easily pass the whole life sleepless; we
can give away all promises and mad feelings in order to
become lonely and sacred. This is my ultimate psychic
disease, a nostalgic property of the thing that gets up with
the touch of the tavern moments.
If one wants to be impressed with a flowery weight and
endlessness, what is the problem? Rivers and clouds
identify me to be an echo. I become a voice with the
union of earth and ether again and again. I become a
mysterious semblance blending dreams and illusions. Yet
I can stand still nowhere.
I have not yet been able to start. I am a misguiding self;
smashing my bare palm, I observe blood; my ignorance
is physical as I am diseased lifelong.
Basically, I am incurable, absolutely incurable.