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.

I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort

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

Today at school I wrote an essay about Flag Day which was so beautiful, but ever so beautiful - for I even used words without really knowing what they meant.

I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.

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.

I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?