It's not demons (who at least have a human face) but Hell itself that seems to be laughing inside me, it's the croaking madness of the dead universe, the spinning cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds blowing blackly in the wind, formless and timeless, without a God who created it, without even its own self, impossibly whirling in the absolute darkness as the one and only reality, everything.

I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.

Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I'm attending here is a show with another set. And the show I'm attending is myself.

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

I am the escaped one, After I was born They locked me up inside me But I left. My soul seeks me, Through hills and valley, I hope my soul Never finds me.

If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.

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