Multipliquei-me para me sentir.

Never having discovered qualities in myself which could attract someone else, I could never believe that anyone felt attracted to me.

I seek and don’t find myself. I belong to chrysanthemum hours, neatly lined up in flowerpots.

The unnatural and the strange have a perfume of their own

We may know that the work we continue to put off doing will be bad. Worse, however, is the work we never do. A work that’s finished is at least finished. It may be poor, but it exists, like the miserable plant in the lone flowerpot of my neighbour who’s crippled. That plant is her happiness, and sometimes it’s even mine. What I write, bad as it is, may provide some hurt or sad soul a few moments of distraction from something worse. That’s enough for me, or it isn’t enough, but it serves some purpose, and so it is with all of life.

My boredom with everything has numbed me.

I’m beginning to know myself. I don’t exist. I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease and all by myself in my room.