Reflections

In living practice, Rock Music, and all good pop music, is nothing more than a platform for uncontrollable fantasies of adventurous sex, and of brooding journeys though nights of drugs and luxury. ('Rock criticism' which neglects this fundamental premise misses everything. There is not much to be said, after all. The salient fact of rock, as with sexual pleasure, is that it is either present or absent and longed for. The presence is only an annullment of the longing, and that's all we get, who are condemned to live this way: beholden to these coarse gratifications.)

To advance into time and the night, one must undertake not to be bored by the vacancy of one's self. It can be tricky when all you have are monotonous and uninspired records, like [this source], but the working method--recall--is to check your worst impulses and your scorn and your appetite for distractions, and fake being a scholar of your inner life until it finally seems to work: you begin to get gold and silver memories unbidden trickling out of cracks, old places and forgotten expectations lighting up, lachyrmose, in the darkness of locked-off places in the world.

Now--you could write simply. If you worry about cataloguing your wisdom, you should condense your thoughts, and condense your records the same way, and write down only what's important. If you want any of the possible satisfaction or the passion of this way of life, the only course is steeliness and withholding.