I come closer to my desk as to a bulwark against life.
These pages are not my confession; they’re my definition. And I feel, as I begin to write it, that I can write it with some semblance of truth.
I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.
It's in an inland sea that the river of my life ended.
Multipliquei-me para me sentir.
As I walk, I construct perfect sentences that I cannot remember later at home. I don’t know if the ineffable poetry of those sentences derived from what they were or from their never having been (written).