Human suffering, while it is asleep, is shapeless. If it is wakened it takes the form of the waker.
One lives in the hope of becoming a memory.
No one is a light unto himself, not even the sun.
My truths do not last long in me. Not as long as those that are not mine.
When the superficial wearies me, it wearies me so much that I need an abyss in order to rest.
When I break any of the chains that bind me I feel that I make myself smaller.