Kierkegaard is love and angst

The ghost of Kierkegaard haunts my room, and I welcome this ephemeral presence but I choose not to tamper with the energies which whirl in its wake, breathing all around me now as if a cloud of a gas of guidance: the fire-flies of possibility have begun to flutter, buzz all around me, and I sense a whiff of victory! Kierkegaard imbues me as Jibril imbued Mohammad, as with visions and revelations, as with trepidations and seizures... I receive the commandment which says: there is no commandment at all! And my anointment is to be done home, privately... the booth of confession is the bed of my very night's sleep. The ghost of Kierkegaard have since left my room, but be fucking sure he taught me the ways of administering the freedom that I have not gotten as a gift from him but rather from no-one or no thing: I have had it thrown at me, yes, thrown at me with a cold indifference, and just as I have shocked at the phantastic implications of this freedom, I have embraced it and rejected it, as if my own Regine, my own beautiful Regine Olsen...