I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

The mystery of human destiny is that we are fated, but that we have the freedom to fulfill or not fulfill our fate: realization of our fated destiny depends on us. While inhuman beings like the cockroach realize the entire cycle without going astray because they make no choices.

The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.

Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting

For one has the right to shout. So, I am shouting.

And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn't have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.

Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.