It's been months since I last wrote. I've lived in a state of mental slumber, leading the life of someone else. I've felt, very often, a vicarious happiness. I haven't existed. I've been someone else. I've lived without thinking.

I wasn’t meant for reality, but life came and found me.

And I have the others in me. Even when I’m far away from them, I am forced to live with them. Even when I’m all alone, crowds surround me. I have no place to flee to, unless I were to flee from myself.

It is noble to be shy, illustrious not to know how to act, great not to have a gift for living.

No intelligent idea can gain general acceptance unless some stupidity is mixed in with it.

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.

My soul's the present shadow of a presence gone.