Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.
Every thought should recall the ruin of a smile.
How good would it be if one could die by throwing oneself into an infinite void.
When we cannot be delivered from ourselves, we delight in devouring ourselves.
When you have understood that nothing is, that things do not even deserve the status of appearances, you no longer need to be saved, you are saved, and miserable forever.
True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.