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

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.

Facts and particulars annoy me.

What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.

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

You don't understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body.

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.