I've reached the point where tedium is a person, the incarnate fiction of my own company.
pg.9 "In my heart there's a peaceful anguish, and my calm is made of resignation.
Everything is worthwhile if the soul is not small.
Life is whatever we conceive it to be.
Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I'd languished. I gave birth to my infinite being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps.
If this be to have sense, if to be awake Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things, For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take And for truth commune with imaginings