My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.

Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.

As I walk, I construct perfect sentences that I cannot remember later at home. I don’t know if the ineffable poetry of those sentences derived from what they were or from their never having been (written).

In the very corner of my soul there is an altar to a different god.

I realize that, while often happy and often cheerful, I am always sad.

To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.

pg 9, "The consciousness of life's unconsciousness is the oldest tax levied on the intelligence.