Today I woke from a sound sleep with curses of joy on my lips, with gibberish on my tongue, repeating to myself like a litany--"Fay ce que vouldras!... fay ce que vouldras!;
Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything but let it yield ecstasy. So much crowds into my head when I say this to myself : images, gay ones, terrible ones, maddening ones, the wolf and the goat, the spider, the crab, syphilis with her wings outstretched and the door of the womb always on the latch, always open, ready like tomb.
Lust, crime, holiness : the lives of my adored ones, the failures of my adored ones, the words the left behind them, the words they left unfinished; the good they dragged after them and the evil, the sorrow, the dischord, the rancor, the strife they created.
But above all, the ecstasy!
*an excerpt from Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?
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