2002-01-11 - 2:27 p.m.

'Good night, sweet Prince; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.'

Why must I recognise the arias of my own Missa Solemnis?

In stead of her voice, that would soothe me to sleep, I shall have to allow my fingers to trace this singular path to a moment's respite. Are there nights when you wake up cold and physically fraught? - and do you then begin to believe that she might never come?

You would want to know what it is I am saying and why I write. I come unarmed. There are no fancy words or sentences that stretch into paragraphs that are seen as thoughts. I want to write simply because I do, despite everything, wish to communicate with you. Despite your probable lack of interest. Despite the impossibility of a solution.

I am a missionary from Saturn. Are these words something of an attempt to proselytize? I think so. If I find that I am not well attuned to others, my necessary corollary is that I would have some company. Why you? You, I think, I could love. But then I write? Why do I contort myself before you when I would that we were laid abreast? I don't know why I write to you, but to account for my first emanation - herewith the answer.

Oh but for one trenchant, illustrative sentence. And, as well, that I find myself at odds with the variants: I am sad; I find myself sad; I am saddened; Melancholy descends; I have no one; My immaterial world is too too much richer than the world of the living.

I am inexpressibly sad.

�

previous - next

�