I am the suburb of a non-existent town, the prolix commentary on a book never written. I am nobody, nobody. I am a character in a novel which remains to be written, and I float, aerial, scattered without ever having been, among the dreams of a creature who did not know how to finish me off.

I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

Everything is theater.

I don't mourn the loss of my childhood; I mourn because everything, including (my) childhood, is lost.

Direct experience is the evasion, or hiding place of those devoid of imagination.

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.

What Hells and Purgatories and Heavens I have inside of me! But who sees me do anything that disagrees with life--me, so calm and peaceful?