"I would have preferred to sing the blues in any small bar full of smoke than to spend the nights of my life scratching into language..." (Alejandra Pizarnik)
My whole existence, I have been intently studying earthly life. In your books and music I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung beautiful songs and played numerous instruments, I have hunted gazelles and monsters in dark forests, and have explored so many different trains of thought... Beauties as ethereal as clouds and mist, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me in the dead of night, and have whispered in my ears alluring tales that have set my brain on fire. In your books, I have climbed to the peaks of The Himalayas and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with sad gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen previously unvisited primeval jungles and forbidden forests, desolate fields and barren landscapes, the gloom and splendor of nature, virgin springs and breaking waterfalls, hidden caves in the wadi, haunted cities and forgotten ghost towns, heard wild howls and soft breezes of laughter, visited mysterious shrines, abandoned graveyards and secret hideaways for lovers. I have heard the wondrous singing of the sirens in the silence of the night, and the distant strains of the shepherds' pipes at sunrise; In my darkest dreams, I have even touched the bloody wings of sly devils who flew down to converse with me of life after death... In your books, I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles and slain, burned towns and executed innocent witches, preached new philosophies, died and was resurrected... Again and again. Your books and music have given me almost infinite wisdom. All that the unresting thought and novel creativity of man has created in the ages is compressed into a small compass within my demonic brain. But I despise your worldly wisdom and the temporary blessings of this tragic world. It is all worthless, fleeting, illusory and deceptive - like a schizophrenic mirage or a Tibetan mandala. You may be proud, wise, charismatic and self-confident, but death shall nonetheless wipe you off the face of the earth as though you were no more than unconscious rats burrowing under the floor, and your bewildered successors, your allegedly splendiferous history, and your beloved immortal geniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthly globe. (Anton Chekhov, 1889; Wings of an Angel, 2011)
Abstract Sounds & Razor Sharp Words To Illuminate The Silence... Surrounded By Tears And Shadows... Sadness, Sadness. This Life Is An Ever Evolving Dark Night Of The Soul. And What Am I - A Galactic Wreck - To Do? In This Cosmic Catastrophe, There Will Be No Romantic Survivors.
via Internet Archive / ParaLucid Records