Ah, what a morning this is, awakening me to life's stupidity. [98 - Zenith trans.]
I realize that I was all error and deviation, that I never lived, that I existed only in so far as I filled time with consciousness and thought.
My past is everything I failed to be.
Life is what we make of it. Travel is the traveler. What we see isn't what we see but what we are.
My boredom with everything has numbed me.
I look for myself but find no one. I belong to the chrysanthemum hour of bright flowers placed in tall vases. I should make an ornament of my soul.