Right up until this summit of lost peace that takes itself as the standard and point, i will adress sorrow. Thereby banishing it and reducing the pain of life, and of acting. Like i have come relentlessly from point, advocating it as a creed, blind to the pathos i was creating, deaf to empathy except momentarilly, and not free in myself. And i was unfree enough to speak a language no-one understood. Sorrow: i address it, and set it dumb. I give it everything, i try and kill it with candour. I feed it till it bursts, it diminishes, or it should. I sometimes mock it, but i am usually serious. And in everything i was a totaliarian, a fundamentalist, a melancholic.
These were not roles but demonic possessions which shook me, i spoke in tongues and cried out how i missed my home. I was stubborn but not ungenerous; i gave of everything freely, and everything returned to me, the totalitarian, who accepted and rejected arbitrarily and soundly, always with one eye on the clock. I disarmed suffering by welcoming it, but not sacrifcing to it. And i spoke the truth in the face of death, and it did not matter, and never will matter, that no echco, however faint, was returned. The tragi-comic mask slips, and the void is revealed.