Life is too short for boring stories

No matter how much it is, it is always too little.

Even if I rewrite all the books of this world, it is always too little.

No matter how deeply I penetrate, it is always too superficial.

Even if I spoke all the languages of this world, I would never be able to penetrate deep enough.

No matter how much I wrestle, it is always too stale.

Even if I could describe all facets of the human and the living, it would always be empty.

I am writing, more and more and ever, and yet it is always only an approximation, like the beast of prey, but there is also that certain point which I cannot get out of, which does not allow me to advance. And this is nothing more than to make the actual understandable, as what works and stimulates me, and yet I cannot achieve it.

No matter how hard I try, there will be nothing else but a cheap imitation. Maybe you understand what I want to say. Perhaps you can think beyond my words in the unpredictable, but I cannot say it.


And when I tear my skin off my body to reveal the fresh meat. It would not be a word.

And when I parted my chest to free my heart. It would not be a word.

And if I smash my skull at the wall of my self-assertion. It would not be a word

And when I completely surrendered, completely disarmed myself. It would not be a word.

Pale and empty and desolate.

Of course it is about love, it is always about love.

And so it’s all about failure. My failure.


For if you put your hand into mine, if our lips find each other, then it is the truth, and the variety of all the words ever said are in the saying, and are ever said, more than all sayable, for it is truth and life and passion.

And yet I continue, despite all the inadequacy. If it is to be so until the day when I can no longer speak, on which I have finally pronounced, until then it is the sting in the flesh that drives me, and does not allow me to rest, to keep pushing forward and further, in order never to reach the core.


I will continue and pass on, because I cannot help it. Because I wrote it to me to be and to speak to you, because there is something in me that does not allow me to rest, which tends to tell me in ever new, ever finer and more varied variations, what a only movement of my hand could be much more striking, you. Nothing more than you.


Senseless Ultimately senseless.


Useful. Maybe if I want to communicate with you, and I have nothing but the words of the language, which ultimately cannot say anything that is really relevant, but lead you to the right track.



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