i return to the scene of the crime. emotion. pure emotion. exhaustion settles in. exhaustion. it is time that you know that i fell in love yesterday with a dead man who was impotent when alive, and with another dead man who was homosexual. by now you know that the sex lives of dead men interest me more than the sex lives of living men. men, just men. it's a men's world, and i have never known another world. women are an invention for the weak, the coward and the spineless. women, like god, are dead from too much veneration and too much oppression. god, like women, is dead. it does not take a professed philosopher to make such a statement, it takes an ignoble ego concocted from frustration and repression to declare the death of all identity.
then there was last night, and again you flirted with that tormented and ignoble ego that i carry around. you make me feel that i am standing on the edge of that abyss of intimacy that you are promising me. you make me want to go again at the break of dawn for a walk along the river, to listen to the crows and smell the moon's whispers.
the warrior returns to details. the ego denies all.
