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.

Love is now, is always. All that is missing is the coup de grâce- which is called passion.

No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.

For only when I err do I get away from what I know and what I understand. If "truth" were what I can understand, it would end up being but a small truth, my-sized. Truth must reside precisely in what I shall never understand.

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.

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

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.