In eternity, where there is no time, nothing can grow.
Nothing can become. Nothing changes.
So death created time to grow the things that it would kill…
In an effort to make ’em all see what I found in my life I decided to give ’em a look
None of ’em gave it a glimpse and I guess that I’m sitting in the middle of an unread book
Letters are falling apart but the sentences stand on their own and the wording is permanent
Never been missed, I’ve just been misworded and misinterpreted
Pray no one breaks my heart, Kurt, for tears would ruin these old-fashioned eyes.
Inserted in each year were widowed days
Slow bloody Fridays filled with funerals
Of whites and blacks conquered by skies that rained
Whenever the devil’s wife had beaten her man
Intercalées dans l’an c’étaient les journées veuves
Les vendredis sanglants et lents d’enterrements
De blancs et de tout noirs vaincus des cieux qui pleuvent
Quand la femme du diable a battu son amant
In this century the writer has carried on a conversation with madness. We might almost say of the twentieth-century writer that he aspires to madness. Some have made it, of course, and they hold special places in our regard. To a writer, madness is a final distillation of self, a final editing down. It’s the drowning out of false voices.