These pages are not my confession; they’re my definition. And I feel, as I begin to write it, that I can write it with some semblance of truth.

There's a non-existent peace in the uncertain quietness

I asked for very little from life, and even this little was denied me. A nearby field, a ray of sunlight, a little bit of calm along with a bit of bread, not to feel oppressed by the knowledge that I exist, not to demand anything from others, and not to have others demand anything from me - this was denied me, like the spare change we might deny a beggar not because we're mean-hearted but because we don't feel like unbuttoning our coat.

I never had anyone I could call “Master”. No Christ died for me. No Buddha showed me the right path. In the depths of my dreams no Apollo or Athena appeared to me to enlighten my soul

I'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.

I wasn’t meant for reality, but life came and found me.

Yes, talking to people makes me sleepy.