It's in an inland sea that the river of my life ended.

And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.

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

I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.

To know nothing about yourself is to live. To know yourself badly is to think.

In order to understand, I destroyed myself.

I suffer from life and from other people. I can’t look at reality face to face. Even the sun discourages and depresses me. Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful — only then do I find myself and feel comforted.