Dear One,

What you have discovered here is a private notebook, whose pages are the fragments of my shattered mind.

I, like all writers, am an informant, a reject of society.

I am an exhibitionist, a pervert, a barking dog.

Take care, in the throes of these ribald entertainments, these weird joys of the mind, that you do not become a mere voyeur, peering toward a lighted room at the distant end of some labyrinthine corridor.

Take care that you do not forget yourself…

…for the labyrinth stares back.

…for it is you who performs here.



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