My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.

I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.

And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me? Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam" | "She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed

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

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

I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.