Goodbye, young Adelaide,
cradle of the youth
of my psychosis.
Goodbye.
You're unable to come on the subsequent journey.
I renounce you, Adelaide.
In love.
Don't be offended.
I renounce myself as well.
We stand upon a mighty riverbank
but here I cross.
I have some room for cherished friendships,
for mother,
for father somehow.
Yet that is all.
Here we bid farewell.
Those parties and dinners and gossip,
that thirst for the women and the drink and some
centre of some stage:
I just can't dance those dances anymore.
They're all so tiresome
and growing tragic.
What life? Where?
I've loved you, Adelaide,
but I'm on my way to kill the thing within.
Perhaps one can't succeed.
Many have tried
and I get that this is nothing new.
But knowing I'll fail
is not so crucial
as knowing I'm trying.
I'm fifty days without ejaculation.
I'm renouncing women
on the fly.
It's all a part of it.
Do you understand, young Adelaide?
You just can't join me now.
I can't extrapolate further.
I'd only be lying
and I'm ignorant of the rest of the story
anyhow.
Do you know the power
in hearing the sex
of the woman camped adjacent
and simply letting your member stand
ignored by stoic hands?
Stirring once,
plugging your ears
and letting your member fall,
do you know the power of turning from Satan?
Do you understand, young Adelaide?
I'm going crazy on purpose.
You'd only get in the way.
I rest in my tent by Argyle,
hearing the freak show.
They talk of beautiful views
and available work.
I understand it less and less.
I only wish to go to the waters.
I only wish to be baptized again
and again.
Does God exist?
Does it matter?
Look, goodbye young Adelaide.
I'm already on the other side
in any case.
