To Catullus

With pumice dry just polish'd fine
To whom present this book of mine?

I fall through. And I'm gone. The sincere that we say. The foundation is coldness. Such a proximity requires a low temperature. To you I say what I think since I don't respect you. I know that you can't pass it on, follow it up, draw consequences from it. You are unable. Like a rock in a water. An Egyptian sepulchral chamber. Nothing is ever going to happen. There are no limits for what I can say to you. This lack of limitation would have driven me insane, if I'd had the ability to become insane. . . . I regret this inability. That's why I love to talk about money. It's as if we cared about each other. We do. When they don't arrive. When we have said the sixteenth and the money isn't in the account by then. I feel that I get angry with you! Then! I feel that I hate you! Hate! It's great! I feel that I have a relation to you. I here. You there. You with money. I without. You with my money. It sounds unsympathetic. What do they know, who would call it that, about life? . . . The other is without resistance. Like water. The hand in the water. The invisible hairs of the hand curved. Nothing more. Why call these effusions anything? Like relieving oneself. Splash against water, porcelain. I can say "You are a crocophant"; "I think of you when I masturbate, never daddy, nono, only you," or "today I stuck a toothbrush in the putty, it was new and eccentric," or "I love you, Ola." I can say this to you. . . .     I forget everything. Forget. You have said something. I forget it. Why?     I must respect you. You shall be a receiver. Think for yourself. React. Unexpected. Provoke. If I only was sure that what I'm saying and feeling became something else when it entered you. I'm not. You are just like another I. As a Roman master confessing to his slave — without reflecting upon this person being present in the room.     And I know you feel the same about me. I know it.     Let's talk about something else. Not shadow-boxing. Something pleasant. Something that is pleasant.     Whatever. Everything that happens here. Go. Go. Less lonely without you. Without the remainder of who I am. In you. Mouth-diarrhea. Lack of posture. Indifference.     Today I got poo-poo on my fingers when I wiped myself. It has never happened before. Usually I stick my finger up my ass. After having wiped myself. And smelling it. The deeper I insert it the more it smells of blood. When I was a kid I thought I got into the blood itself with that ass-finger.     Love. That's what it's about. And even if we don't always agree. No, we don't. That's what's important. If one is thinking of good things. Are you thinking of good things? I'm thinking of good things. Then we're together. I'm thinking of swimming. What are you thinking of? No, don't tell. You're thinking of . . . bal. No, sorry, what am I saying. Balls that kittens play with. Why? Now we're together in it: swimming and . . . balls . . . No, don't step out of it now! Why are you stepping out? Now we're in!     I can tell you about my vision. First it was black. With some hills. One couldn't see a thing. Only feel. It was lumpy. It was hot. It was in the rectum. I was sucked upwards. It was so beautiful. I was cooled off. By waves. Currents all around me. Everywhere. Passing through me. Shivers. By summons. It was as if someone said it to me. "By summons." To move upwards. Where? I didn't know. I really didn'...