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“Should I make up a story or do I allow my chaotic inspiration free rein? There’s so much false inspiration. And when real inspiration arrives and I don’t realize it? Would it be too horrible to want to move closer to the lucid self within? Yes, and it’s when the self no longer exists, no longer makes demands, that it joins the tree of life — and that’s what I struggle to attain. To forget oneself and yet to live so intensely. I’m afraid to write. It’s so dangerous. Anyone who’s tried, knows. The danger of stirring up hidden things — and the world is not on the surface, it’s hidden in its roots submerged in the depths of the sea. In order to write I must place myself in the void. In this void is where I exist intuitively. But it’s a terribly dangerous void: it’s where I wring out blood. I’m a writer who fears the snares of words: the words I say hide others — which? maybe I’ll say them. Writing is a stone cast down a deep well.”