When one of my Japanese teacups is broken, I imagine that the real cause was not the careless hand of a maid but the anxieties of the figures inhabiting the curves of that porcelain. Their grim decision to commit suicide doesn't shock me: they used the maid as one of us might use a gun.

Could it think, the heart would stop beating.

Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.

I'm something that I used to be. I'm never where I feel I am, and if I seek myself, I don't know who's seeking me. My boredom with everything has numbed me. I feel banished from my soul.

Multipliquei-me para me sentir.

I've reached the point where tedium is a person, the incarnate fiction of my own company.

It is noble to be shy, illustrious not to know how to act, great not to have a gift for living.