All writing is filth
If there is still one hellish, truly accursed thing in our time, it is our artistic dallying with forms, instead of being like victims burnt at the stake, signaling through the flames.
I have need of angels. Enough hell has swallowed me for too many years. But finally understand this-I have burned up one hundred thousand human lives already, from the strength of my pain.
All writing is pigshit.