For him, language is an empty shell,
all the words are looking for a way out.
If he says “apricot”, he's referring to “a bleak white”,
If he speaks of “drinking tea”, he means “a boring
afternoon”— the bystanders, the outsiders
of literature, picking up the fire extinguishers of criticism,
play the roles of lost knights. How would they know
the thousand layers of mystery within: first, some illness
afflicts the aging bodies, then the attack of nothingness,
a battle between two monsters— oppressing him,
they cause him to see the past and future, green liquor and red lights
overcast as rainclouds,  it all seems fleeting.
But no, they're not really fleeting, speaking of them makes them flee.
He's distracted when speaking, taking language as non-language
but pain and intercourse— who understands these at all?
Especially those who want to see an outcome.
He wants to tell them, “outcome” means way-out.
The same way as he says: “speaking” is consuming. Speaking a word
equals to a second or two of non-existence, whether it's
"revolution" or "decadence".