"Going back in a flash over the women I've known.It's like a chain which i forged out of my own misery.Each one bound to the other.A fear of living separate, of staying born.The door of the womb always on the latch.Dread and longing.Deep in the blood the pull of paradise.
The beyond.Always the beyond.It must have all started with the navel.They cut the umbilical cord, give you a slap on the ass, and presto! you're out in the world, adrift, a ship without a rudder.You look at the stars and then you look at your navel.
You grow eyes everywhere-in the armpits, between the lips, in the roots of your hair, on the soles of your feet.What is distant becomes near, what is near becomes distant.Inner outer, a constant flux, a shedding of skins, a turning inside out.
You drift around like that for years and years, until you find yourself in the dead center, and there you slowly rot, slowly crumble to pieces, get dispersed again.
Only your name remains"
-Tropic Of Cancer, Henry Miller
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