a novel

I remember reading somewhere, a novel is a suicide postponed. I don’t remember who said it.

My life consisted entirely of using these postponements, stomping over the lagoon stepping on these, this archipelago of written but unfinished rocks.

Sometimes I think my condition of not being able to be afraid of death is related to, causes an inability to see the use of suicide. Those who are afraid of it, rush in with their eyes closed


Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s