I always live in the present. I don’t know the future and no longer have the past. The former oppresses me as the possibility of everything, the latter as the reality of nothing.

I realize that I was all error and deviation, that I never lived, that I existed only in so far as I filled time with consciousness and thought.

I've reached the point where tedium is a person, the incarnate fiction of my own company.

Stones in the road? I save every single one, and one day I'll build a castle.

Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.

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.

Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.