I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

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

I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

It's been a long time since I've been me.

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 search and can't find myself. I belong in chrysanthemum time, sharp in calla lily elongations. God made my soul into an ornamental thing.

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