Clergymen live in luxury, I wrote to them, asking what they think about the idea that Satan might punish them for it if God doesn't have time. They blocked me.

I always wanted to have a white dress like Emily Dickinson's, and if I could, I would never leave my room.

I think I'll go somewhere,
Freezing in winter I'll settle alone.

I pondered on the fallen angel.

No matter how dark my thoughts are on the essence of the universe,
I love the piercing Cold so much.

Even God grows evil.

I pondered on the fallen angel.

Poetry is not prose!

I'll settle in Alaska.
Black branches, Naked branches.

With anarchist behaviors We turn our backs on all the proud ones - I thought about virtue, forgiveness - But no, Even God grows evil.
I love winter, Black branches.

Poetry is not prose!

Oh, how you really want to sit in your village yard,
where you can smell the scent of walnut leaves,
in a wooden chair.
Without a word,
in the contemplation of silence,
as the last autumn sun warms your body.

There’s a kind of exhaustion like the one I have a void and at that moment, you might listen to a music track like Snow Surfin' Matador for a bit of energy.

If we offer kindness to others, as Viridiana did for the homeless in Buñuel's film, we would have to re-educate them from the beginning so they could adapt to this noble gesture?  You are not truly great and forgiving if you expect this in return.

Is every book really a book? Some authors are at such a low point, yet someone will come along and say, "This is great," and that’s how even such an author gets motivation...