Jeg tror mennesket stræber efter ansvarsløshed. Vi bliver født uden ansvar; i den totale afmagt. Til sidst er vi ligeså skrøbelige og uselvstændige som i begyndelsen, og ind i mellem det og den, så prøver folk at påtage sig opgaver og roller for at tildele årene og dagene noget værdi. Hertil følger ansvar. Men frihed under ansvar er ikke frihed. Når man erkender, at man forsøgte at tillægge noget nogen værdi, så er man bundet af frigørelsen. Så ser man at uanset hvilken værdi, man har lyst til at give, kan man give, så værdien pludselig får værdi, og man frigøres fra frigørelsen. Det er frihed uden ansvar og selvstændighed og årets frugt.

The truth was ripe
The taste was sour
A rotten sting of my golden hour

Spawn your dust, scarce without stint
A silver tongue to sprawl resent
Yet, blends of clarity and savagery - aligned to devour

your fragile phantom fathoming
that HONESTY isn't POWER

Bare det at én holder af mig
er nok til at jeg smilte til stjernerne i aften

Nogle har brug for at brække sig for at vide de er fulde
*** ser på mine øjne ikke i dem.                  Jeg vil gerne sige dig noget, der ikke siger dig noget, for at se, hvor du kigger hen.
                 For træt til at forstå, så jeg dividerer min søvn med nul.
Vinterlyset er væk.

My sexlife is only existing by the thought thereof; it is a film cancelled in pre-production. It is an abandoned studio wherein the lone director stands centrally - scoping the remains of an epic never made, eavesdropping the voices of people that could have been involved and the props and the grandiose sets left in shielding shades.

Maybe someday the script can be rewritten, the thirteen hundred volt lamps will light up the stage where an actress vents her soul and it burns onto celluloid solely destructible by time. The company has decided to let the studio be, maintain it, so that the film can be revived and the passion rekindled, yet for now the studio will be left unattended.
I guess I will visit occasionally.

That night he died again. Oh, he could rest assure that the morning would resuscitate him, but the pages on his desk were empty still and the fingers proclaimed to writing were occupied fiddling with a broken guitar string. His feet walking the neighbourhood neither produced many words nor did calculating the time ought to be spent effectively. He punched a class picture. In the last few days it had gotten easier to ignore the empty pages. The task was overdue, he was done discussing discipline, order of priority and so forth. Pajamas on, lying - waiting - for a morning that, in a few days, will come