Monument in the memory of Pasolini

I feel myself slipping. On the board of insanity, the abyss lying at my feet, I slowly drift towards the dark confines of my mind. This macabre obsession, continuously unearthing skeletons from the dark pages of history, seamlessly absorbs the words of devious spirits and little by little becomes one of them. A man who writes a script about cannibalism, is he horrified or fascinated by it? By criticizing society and its absurdities do we rise above it or do we fall into the pit of hypocrisy? Touching the fine line between solid ground and a freefall jump, exhilaration runs through my veins. I try to prolong the feeling for as long as possible before it fades away and the mundane world takes back its place. I like to toy with the idea of crossing the line, of going past the point of no return. But that will not happen. Not tonight. For now, I remain irrevocably sane.

“Tatal lui era un prof de filozofie. In viata mea nu am vazut un om atat de trist.”