I think of life as an inn where I have to stay until the abyss coach arrives. I don't know where it will take me, for I know nothing.

But my sadness is comforting Because it’s right and natural And because it’s what the soul should feel When it already thinks it exists And the hand pick flowers And the soul takes no notice.

Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.

Silence emerges from the sound of rain and spreads in a crescendo of gray monotony over the narrow street I contemplate. I’m sleeping while awake, standing by the window, leaning against it as against everything. I search in myself for the sensations I feel before these falling threads of darkly luminous water that stand out from the grimy building facades and especially from the open windows. And I don’t know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don’t know what to think or where I am.

Without madness what is man But a wholesome beast, Postponed corpse that begets?

If this be to have sense, if to be awake Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things, For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take And for truth commune with imaginings

FIRST WATCHER Why do people die? SECOND WATCHER Perhaps because they don't dream enough.