Good luck… and let's swear to write.
It will surely be late, very late. More than unpunctual, at odd hours; when everything is closed, right?, when everything has turned dark and is covered there, in the desert night. Perhaps already in vain and meaningless. Like daisies for pigs. Blessed thing but impertinent, cruel, inopportune: subversive; too late, too unhappy. With the irony of life, with the cynicism of death; dammit. It will come in, it will perch like a little bird on my grave, it will eat of me, and then they will come to eat of me. And I'll be like this doubly wounded, doubly dead. There is no worse luck than the one that arrives without acknowledgment of receipt. If I have it late, I prefer to have it never. If I have it like this, I prefer the smell of burning wood with the pages that burn because of me. But I will not stop thinking that I write and that this is my way of being, of living and of dying. And that I have written sentences whose sound, read aloud or softly - it is impossible to hide their sound - is absolutely that of a thing that has taken on absolute exteriority and entirely soul.