John Maus wrote:It was a room. The earsplitting dark and neon room had more than a trillion angles, corners, curves, proportions, and so on. Each of these dimensions was hidden behind a thick cloud of drug smoke, pussy mist (menses, water, pyridine, squalene, urea, acetic acid, lactic acid, complex alcohols and glycols, ketones, aldehydes, and so on), magazine racks, and other various visual obstacles too numerous to begin pointing out.
John Maus wrote:In other words, I was no Saint Francis of the room, I did not amass the others to myself and lead them away from the noise and televisions towards a simplicity and genuine happiness, or something like that, no, no,
John Maus wrote:‘You are not contained in this pitiful limit' I told myself in agony, ‘you always soar beyond it.'
The blackness persisted in its rise; I searched my memories as best I could for merely one example of my being outside this limit, there was none. Every time I saw something further, I understood it was not me, neither was it of me. I saw I could not give word for anything beyond this limit. I could neither say nor think it with all of my might, it was nowhere in me. What I saw then was this limit mocking me, an ugly mocking face – the dragon in a Chinese parade – twisting its gantic head from side-to-side, bawling relentlessly against what I am in showing-off what I could never be, I am precisely the inability to be that.
