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still more. If it grows enough, it turns into a full moon and silence. . . and a phantasmagoric lunar surface. Witness to the stopping of time. What I write you is serious. It will turn into a hard, imperishable object. What comes is unforeseen. To be uselessly sincere, I must now say that its six fifteen in the morning.
    The risk—I'm risking the discovery of new territory. Where human feet have never trod. First, I have to pass through the perfumed vegetation. I was given a bridal wreath, which now sits on my terrace. I shall begin to make my own perfume: I'll buy the right kind of alcohol and the essence of what has been dissolved, and above all the fixative, which has to have a purely animal origin. Heavy musk. That's the last austere chord of the adagio. My number is 9. It's 7. It's 8. All behind thought. If all that exists, then I am. But why this uneasiness? Because I'm not living the only way that there is for a person to live and I don't even know what it is. Uncomfortable. I don't feel well. I don't know what the matter is. But something's wrong and it makes me anxious. Nevertheless, I'm being frank and my game is clean. I begin the game. Only I don't tell the facts of my life: I'm secretive by nature. What is it, then? I only know that I don't want deception. I refuse. I've looked into myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.
    I can now prepare myself for the "he" or "she." The adagio has come to an end. Now I begin. I'm not lying. My truth sparkles like the prism of a crystal chandelier.
    But its hidden. I can stand it because I'm strong: I've eaten my own placenta.
    Even though everything is so fragile. I feel so lost. I live off secret, radiating, luminous rays that would smother me if I didn't cover them with a heavy cloak of false certainties. God help me: I have no one to guide me and it's dark again.
    Will I have to die again in order to be reborn again? I accept.
    I'm going to go back to the unknown within myself and when I'm born I'll speak of "him" or "her." For the time being, what sustains me is the 'that' which is an "it." To create a being from oneself is something very serious. I'm creating myself. And walking in complete darkness in search of ourselves is what we do. It hurts. But it's labor pain: something is being born that is. It is itself. It's hard like a dry stone. But the core is " it ," soft and alive, perishable, in danger. The life of elementary matter.
    Since God does not have a name, I'll give Him the name of Simptar. It doesn't come from any language. I give myself the name of Amptala. As far as I know no such name exists. Perhaps in a language earlier than Sanskrit, an it- language. I hear the tick-tock of the clock: so I hurry. The tick-tock is " it ."
    I don't think I'll die in the next instant because the doctor who gave me a detailed examination said that I'm in perfect health. There, do you see? the instant passed and I didn't die. I want them to bury me directly into the ground, though inside a coffin. I don't want to be closeted in the wall, as in the St. John the Baptist Cemetery that has no more room in the ground. That's why they invented those damned walls, where one is filed away as in an archive.
    Now is an instant. Do you feel it? I do.
    The air is " it " and has no perfume. I like it too. But I also like the bridal wreath, leavened with musk because its sweetness is a surrender to the moon. I've eaten jelly made from small, scarlet roses: its taste blesses us at the same time that it assaults us. How to reproduce taste in words? Taste is single and words are many. And as for music, after it's played, where does it go? The only concrete feature of music is the instrument. Well behind thought I have a musical core. But even further back there's the beating heart. The deepest thought is, then, a beating heart.
    I want to die with life. I swear I shall only die taking full advantage of the final moment. There's a profound prayer within me that